


Her Own Rescuer

by geckosandstarks



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-02-05 04:57:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1806115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckosandstarks/pseuds/geckosandstarks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clarke is taken by grounders, she's oddly effected with a mixture of sadness and fury when she finds out that Bellamy didn't go after her. (Bellamy/Clarke pairing of course, set after 1x11) Rated M for language and possible future situations- *wink, wink*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1 - rescuers- who needs them?

**( Set for 1x12: Clarke and Finn are still missing, and it’s the day after Bellamy’s and Ravens… rumpus. WARNING: Bellarke feelings forthcoming.)**

**CHAPTER ONE**

Clarke lay motionless on the ground, too exhausted to try and defend her body from the grounders relentless beatings. When they’d caught her trying to escape, caught in one of their snares, there had been abuse, but when they discovered the grounders dead body, there had been _torture._ She hadn’t slept, she hadn’t eaten, nor had she drank anything, and she found the little hope that she clung to was fading fast. She willed Bellamy to come crashing through the dense undergrowth, guns in hand, and a rescue team on hand. She knew, she knew this was selfish, but could she not be rescued? Just this once, could someone not save her?

She heard the crunch of leaves beneath solid boots, and for half a second, she thought that this may be Bellamy, Jasper, Monty, Raven and Octavia, faithfully coming to her rescue as she had once done for them.

But no, it wasn’t them, but the grounder princess, Anya, her features curled into a vicious snarl, and a tanned fist painfully clutching at her golden curls. Clarke winced, and a slight whimper slipped through her bloodied lips, seemingly satisfying Anya’s need to hurt, as her lips turned up in a savage smirk. Bringing her lips to Clarke’s ear, she began to whisper,

“You’re weak. A weak, pathetic girl. They won’t come for you, you know. They wouldn’t risk themselves for you- you’re _nothing._ ”

Clarke inhaled sharply, every breath screaming against her lungs. She stifled a sob, unwilling to give Anya the satisfaction of breaking Clarke, even more so than she already had. With the physical abuse Anya would administer, she would spit out words of poison, throwing them like knives, at Clarkes crumbling defences. But Clarke would never give Anya the pleasure of seeing how much she was hurting, and instead fixed on a permanent detached state, refusing to scream, to sob, to beg her, beg her to stop, as she knew Anya would so love her to do. Sure, she would fight the beatings at first, but as they became more frequent, her resolve broke, and she learned they were over quicker if she didn’t fight against her hand. 

Was this, Clarke Griffin, giving up? Entering into a state of icy coldness that she wouldn’t be able to drag herself out of, not this time. Did she really want to? What was left of her, but a cracked shell? Her mother was dead, her father long gone, Wells had left her, and Finn.. Finn was someone she’d let in, one of the few she allowed to truly see her, and that had all gone to flames. She wasn’t wanted, not really. The camp viewed her as a tight-ass, they didn’t really like her, and Bellamy…

Aah, Bellamy Blake, their rebel leader, risen from the despair of loss and betrayal to lead the 100 to their victory, their freedom on earth. She mentally snorted, yeah, _right._

It was then she realised, that beaten and broken, she could still bring herself back, away from the edge just a little bit, to insult Bellamy Blake.

Leave _him_ in charge of the camp? Alone?

So that wasn’t happening.

Clarke pushed away the self-pity, and for the first time in what felt like days, (though only perhaps, a day and a half) found the burning determination flickering deep inside her. Reaching towards that, finding this unknown strength within her, she glared harshly at Anya, and, though the movement sent waves of pain bouncing throughout her, jerked backwards away from her clawing fingers. Anya gasped slightly, taken aback by the sudden movement in the girl, and felt her hair slip through her fingers as she released her vice-like grip on Clarke in shock.

Clarke smiled the tiniest triumphant smile, just a ghost of it, hovering above her lips, and was met with a harsh backhand from Anya in retaliation. Clarke gritted her teeth, pushing down the scream of frustration, more than pain, which wanted to surface so badly.

Clarke pulled herself up slowly, her muscles in a permanent sense of overwhelming _ache,_ and though she knew she shouldn’t, turned Anya’s own words against her, her voice throaty and rough.

“You’re weak. A weak, pathetic _child._ You’re-“

Her words were cut off as Anya lashed out at her again in pure fury, and Clarke knew it really wasn’t the right thing to do- but damn if she didn’t feel smug.

Clarke feigned unconsciousness to save her more beatings, but Anya wasn’t quite done yet, and after several punches, kicks, slaps, and scratches made at the points of immense anger, she kicked Clarke away as if she disgusted her, and ordered a guard to watch her.

Clarke was sore, but thought she had gotten of fairly easy compared to what Anya could have done. Clarke shuddered slightly.

“Hey, girly.” Came the voice of the greasy grounder that seemed to have picked up a particular interest in Clarke.  Trying not to cringe, she kept her eyes glued shut.

Then his breath was fanning over her face, putrid and disgustingly warm.

“I know you’re up, girly. Open your eyes so we can _play.”_ He whispered to her in what he must have thought as seductive.

Aha, no.

Clarke remained completely still under his heated gaze, refusing to obey his commands. Sighing, he pulled away from her, and she heard the familiar sound of crunching leaves as he departed. She felt the spark of hope ignite in her once more, though this time; she didn’t fight to keep it down. She dared peek one eye open, and then slowly raised her head, checking her surroundings. Seeing no-one, she attempted to shift her position, though it was difficult as her hands and feet were bound tightly together in rope. Groaning quietly, she looked around, hoping to spot something that may assist her, but her mental search was interrupted at the sound of approaching footsteps.

She shoved her head back into the ground so quickly she got whiplash. Super-duper _pain-fucking-ful_ whiplash.

She kept her eyes closed, but she knew the greasy grounder hovered above her, his scent lingered close in the air, and it was all she could do to stop herself from dry-heaving.

And then suddenly, something cold and wet was splashed over her face, and her eyes flew open, groaning in pain as the salt water soaked into the open wounds on her face.

“Oh, good, you’re awake.” The grounder said smiling, staring down at her lustfully.

She was about to very literally gag, but she saw the sharp arrowhead glinting in the sun, and she saw her chance.

Smiling flirtatiously at the grounder, (she hoped it was flirty, but it probably didn’t have as much of an effect with her bloody and bruised beyond repair) she purred a greeting.

He responded immediately, roughly pulling her body into a sitting position, his hands remaining firmly around her waist. (G-A-G)

She covered her repulsion with another grin, and she brought her lips towards his ear,

“So you want to play?” She whispered seductively, his body shaking in anticipation as he nodded vigorously.

She gestured behind her, where her hands were wrapped tightly in rope. “You’ll have to untie me then.” She continued purring, and it seemed for a moment, he regained some sense, as he grinned slyly and shook his head no.

“You’re a prisoner, I could get in trouble..” She frowned lightly, and really turning it up now, pouted her lips at him. His resolve slipped slightly.

“But if you don’t untie me, then I won’t be able to use my hands, they won’t be able to wonder…” He groaned, slipping further. Determined, Clarke added,

“And they’re very skilled.” In the huskiest tone she could muster, and with that, he was gone. He pulled a knife away from his belt, made sure no-one was watching, and immediately began sawing away at the rope that bound her hands together.

She grinned at him as her hands came loose, and he looked at her fervently, his lips seeking out hers.

Yeah, nope.

She brought her finger to his lips, “Aah, aah, ah.” She whispered and instead reached a hand towards his weapons belt, under the impression of reaching for his trousers.

“Close your eyes.” She soothed, resting a hand on his cheek, and gagging silently as he complied.

Her hands shook slightly as she pulled the arrowhead away, though still she did it quickly and with smooth ease. Bringing up the sharpened point, she slit his throat, as his eyes widened in horror.

She brought her hand to his mouth to muffle screams and yells for help, though he was fading fast.

As she stared into his eyes slowly glazing over, she was reminded of something Bellamy had once told her.

_“Who we are, and who need to be to survive are two very different things.”_

Were they though? This was who she, Clarke Griffin was, and she was a murderer.

She didn’t have time to philosophise on her (surely) dammed soul though, as the grounder slipped away silently. She dug around for the discarded blade, finding it under a pile of leaves, and sawed through the ropes that hugged her feet together, throwing the rope away quickly.

Though her lungs still burned, and her whole body ached like hell, if she was going to survive, she knew she had to run. Only this time, she would try to be more cautious.

She tore through the trees as fast as she could, half limping on an injured leg. She was pumped on only by the rush of adrenaline that raged through her veins, and the burning desire to get back to the 100.

Who needs them?

 

**(BELLARKE FEELINGS FORTHCOMING, AS IN NEXT CHAPTER SUUUCKERS!**

**There will be many Bellarke feels next chapter though, I just wanted to establish how awesome Clarke is as a character.**

**Leave Kudos and comment, maybe? Bhuye!**


	2. 2 - hostile

**CHAPTER TWO**

**As promised, here are your bellarke feels.**

The air didn’t seem to be reaching her lungs fast enough, Clarke thought as she pushed her legs further, deeper into the dense forest. She didn’t know how long she would have before they found the grounders body, before they came after her. She needed to keep going, if she could have a whisper of a chance of surviving, of getting back to camp. She had to be close now, she had to be…

A twig snapped ahead of her, and apprehension tightened her chest. Her head whipped around frantically, searching for a hiding spot. Crawling behind a looming shrug, she tried not to breathe, though she found this to be a difficult feat, with her lungs screaming in a violent protest.

Fear clawed at her chest, gashes long and deep. Clarke pushed the feeling down, finding no time for vulnerability in her current situation. Digging around for her knife, she saw with a sense of panic, that in her rush to get away, she’d lost it somewhere, discarded along the forest floor.

She closed her eyes for half a second, but threw them open again at the sound of the footsteps coming closer towards her. Shifting her position, she tried to pull away some leaves in the bush, to see who the intruder was. But the bush was thick, and try as she may; the only thing she could make out was a flash of dark hair.

Dark hair…

Could it be?

Clarke dared to inch her head to side an inch, but she could still only see the inky locks, now turning in another direction. It was now or never.

Pushing her head around the bush completely, she sighed a eased sigh, apprehension and fear replaced with a bubbling joy.

 “Octavia.” She croaked out the girls’ name almost silently and only once, but the teens head spun around at the voice, and her face fell into lines of shock.

“Clarke! Oh my... We thought- we thought you were dead!” She exclaimed, running over to Clarke, actions gentle and soft. It was only then, seeing through the wash of bliss at the girl’s sudden appearance, did she see how badly wounded the girl was, a black eye, cuts lips, numerous bruises and scratches all over her face, her clothes were ripped _everywhere_ and gashes covered her body, most fresh and still bleeding.

“Oh Clarke...” she breathed, awash with borrowed sorrow.

Clarke’s vision was fading fast, black spots dotting around her line of sight, and everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. She blinked slowly, trying to regain her sense, but the desire to glue her eyes shut grew, and before she completely blacked out, she heard Octavia shouting for her to stay awake, and her voice, alien to her own ears.

“Have to go.. grounders coming… _go….”_

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Octavia supported an unconscious Clarke with one arm, hauling Clarke’s body back to camp, so they could fix her, save her. Letting her eyes drift to Clarke, she mentally cursed Bellamy. Clarke was strong, but she wouldn’t have to have been, if Bellamy had called out a search party. Clarke shouldn’t have to have done this by herself, as a camp they should have helped her. Clarke was more than just their healer, she was their _leader._ And a better person than half the camp put together.

As the camp wall came into her sight, she knew Bellamy was going to lay into her for leaving without permission, but that didn’t matter right now, what mattered was Clarke.

She knew Jasper was on his shift right now, and so she called to him from outside the wall.

“Help! Help us! I found Clarke! Let us in!”

Commotion arose from behind the wall, but Jasper was already there, supporting Clarkes other half, and helping drag her into camp.

Gasps and yells shook the camp ground, at the sight of a broken Clarke, and Bellamy flew out from his tent, shirtless- _of course._

“What’s going on?” He boomed, demanding the camps attention. His furrowed eyes scanned the crowd, until they landed carefully on Clarkes dishevelled form, and eyes widening, his stance quickened as he rushed forward.

Everyone’s attention was on Clarke and Bellamy as he now stood by her, lifting her from Jasper and Octavia’s loose hold, so no-one, no-one but a certain younger sister saw, as Raven slipped away quietly from Bellamy’s tent. Octavia gasped, so _that’s_ what he’d been doing, instead of sending out a search party for Clarke. Typical. She would yell at him for it later.

Bellamy was holding Clarke to his chest in a bridal fashion, inspecting her injuries, eyes now cold and accusing.

“Where’d you find her, Jasper?” He asked, eyes never leaving the medic.

“He didn’t. I did.” Octavia said before Jasper could come in with anything. His head shot up, his gaze promising a ‘we’ll have this conversation later’ kind of look.

 Ignoring his heated glare, she continued with a sense of urgency.

“I didn’t really find her- she found me. She was running, I think, and she was awake when I saw her- she was hiding. She said that we had to go, because the grounders were coming, so I grabbed her, and got back here as fast as possible.”

Bellamy Blake nodded stiffly, his hands and chest now stained with Clarkes blood.

“We’ve got to get her to the medic bay.” He announced, rushing towards the drop ship, while still being careful to not hurt Clarke in this tender state.

Bellamy lay her down on the same table where she’d pulled the knife out of spacewalker, and looked around for her supplies.

“We’ve got to stop the bleeding- she’s already lost too much blood.” Octavia scrambled around for numerous cloths to blot the blood that was still flowing out of Clarke freely. She gave a cloth to Jasper to hold to her left leg, and another to Bellamy to hold to her right arm.

“What do we do, Bellamy?” Jasper asked desperately looking to the leader for guidance.

Bellamy opened his mouth to say something, but he didn’t know what. He was _scared._ Clarke was the one who always knew what to do, she had helped him step away from the edge before when he had so badly wanted to jump off, and here she was, needing his help, and he- he just didn’t know what to do.

“I-“

“Don’t listen to him, his medical knowledge stretches as far as his listening skills do – about half the size of your little finger.” Clarke croaked from beneath them.

Jasper let out a shaky laugh, Octavia brought her hands to her head in relief, while Bellamy tried to cover his smile with a smirk.

“Back from the dead to insult me, princess? I’m honoured.” He said grinning.

“Don’t be- your voice was just really annoying.” She said sighing and putting her head down.

“Alright here’s what you’re gonna need to do- you’re gonna have to make sure my wounds don’t get infected, there should be some stuff over there.” She gestured her pack. “And I’m going to need stiches- they’ll be in my bag too.”

Clarke began to list off some other things, to which everyone complied to her orders quickly and efficiently, not daring to question her.

As she talked Octavia through the stiches, she kept her face placid, but squeezed her fists together so tightly that her nails almost drew blood- Bellamy noticed this.

“Brave princess.” He muttered under his breath, so quietly that no-one but Octavia heard, who discretely hid a smile.

Octavia finished up quickly, beaming when Clarke nodded her approval of the slightly jagged stiches. Clarke smiled, but it fell quickly, as if she was just realising something.

“Finn.” She whispered.

“We need to find Finn- we need to-“ she began to try and stand but was immediately cut off by three very loud objections.

“I don’t think so Clarke- you’re in no state to go gallivanting through the forest in search of spacewalker- it’s not happening.” Bellamy stated with a clear tone of finality.

She glared harshly at him.

“It’s not your decision, Bellamy. Finn’s in trouble- he _needs_ help, and he needs it _now.”_ She growled.

“Can’t do that, princess. Like you said- we need all the soldiers we can get to face against a grounder attack- we can’t _afford_ a search party.”

“Like you couldn’t afford one for her?” Octavia growled. “Why was that? Oh yeah – you were too ‘busy’ fucking Raven!” She exploded.

If the room had been tense before- it was _hostile_ now.

…

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	3. 3 - the needs of the many

** CHAPTER 3 **

The earlier joyous atmosphere in the room had been very quickly replaced; the moment Octavia had burst open, with the truth of Bellamy and Ravens actions.

Octavia stood tall and straight, very aware of the effect her words had had, but not at all regretting her choice to confess them aloud. Bellamy glared daggers at his sister, shock and hostility combined, heading straight towards her. Clarke, Clarke was seething- there was really no other way to describe it. Fists clenched tight together, still in endurance- not to throw something sharp straight at Bellamy’s head, breaths coming out ragged and uneven, and eyes ablaze with a glaring wrath, all for Bellamy. Through all of this, Jasper stood idly by the entrance, looking as though he wanted nothing more than to escape away from the room darkened by the resentment each person held for another. 

The room was very quiet for a few seconds, and Jasper thought that the silence was much like the ticking of a bomb, right before it blows everything to hell.

And then Clarke exploded.

“YOU SADISTIC SON OF A BITCH!” She screamed at Bellamy, hands groping for something to throw at him.

Octavia smirked.

Bellamy simply stared at Clarke, the insult bouncing off his thick skin.  Pointing towards to door he spoke a single word.

“Out.”

Though he kept his gaze on her, it was clear who his comment was intended for, authority running deep within his voice.

Jasper was only too happy to comply, getting out of there so fast; he left skid marks in his wake. Octavia was just a little harder to convince.

She crossed her arms firmly over her chest, digging her feet. Her face fell into a mask of determination, and the Blake gene of blind stubbornness shone through.

“No. I’m not leaving.” She spoke calmly, but underneath her tone lay a clear annoyance, at both Bellamy and his actions.

Bellamy turned his head slightly to glare witheringly at her.

“O, I swear to god-“He began, but was cut off as Octavia spoke with a fiery sass.

“I want to see Clarke yell at you. Seems like it’s gonna be a good show.”

Clarke had not at all calmed down in the short amount of time, and was still searing with rage. Though still, she knew if Octavia stayed, she’d end up yelling at her, too. So, with Octavia’s best interests in sight, she pushed down the fury as much as she could for the moment, though still keeping her glare on Bellamy as she spoke.

“Please, Octavia.” She said to her, as the dark-haired girl turned to look at her.

Octavia looked at Clarke in disappointment. “But-“

Clarke sent a single look her way, and Octavia understood the meaning behind it. Sighing, her shoulders dropping, and her arms falling down towards her sides, she headed towards the tarp,(their makeshift door) though at the last second turned back quickly and added,

“Don’t think I won’t be eavesdropping, though.” Before turning, and throwing up the tarp, leaving the two leaders alone in the drop ship.

“Clarke-“Bellamy began, not really knowing what he was going to tell her.

“What the HELL were you thinking?” She screeched at him, loud enough for a few stragglers walking past the drop ship to stop and stare, and for an eavesdropping Octavia to recoil away from the tarp.

Bellamy gave her a dispassionate look.

“When, Clarke? What the hell was I thinking _when?_ When I had sex with Raven, or when I did the responsible thing, by not risking camp members, trekking into grounder territory? We thought you were dead, Clarke! You and spacewalker! What were we _supposed_ to do? Because clearly, you have all the answers!” He yelled back at her, his voice now rising in volume, as he took a single step towards her.

“’We?’ Are you sure it was ‘we?’ Because, I don’t think it was. What I think, Bellamy Blake, is that you thought I was dead, and so you told everyone else I was dead. No room for argument, or opinion. YOU thought I was dead, so they must have thought I was dead too, right?” She sat up straight on the table now, ignoring the shooting pain that ran up her spine, so she wouldn’t have to stare up at him- she wouldn’t let him see her as weak, not now, not here.

Seeing her actions, he took more steps forward, her biting words edging him on even more.

“Don’t even try that, Clarke. We ALL thought you were dead. You’d been taken by grounders, you hadn’t returned for hours- it didn’t exactly look great for you! Being a leader, means making the hard decisions- sacrificing the needs of the one, for the needs of the many.  And that’s what I HAD TO DO CLARKE!” His voice rose at the end, and now they were only a few steps away from each other, both caught in the heat of the intense vibe of the room.

Clarke scoffed, but said nothing.

Bellamy raised a single eyebrow. “Stunned you into silence, huh, princess? You have nothing to say to that, because you know I’m _right._ The only possible reason you could have for being angry is little case of a certain little green-eyed monster.” He said mockingly, though still behind his words was something she couldn’t decipher.

At this, Clarke did speak up, enraged once again.

“You think I’m angry because I’m jealous of you and Raven? No, you see, because for that to work, that would mean I would have to harbour feelings for you, and at most, Bellamy, I tolerate you.” Clarke spat out at the older man, eyes glinting back at him with venom, and a cold menace.

“Oh, you tolerate me? What happened to you needing me, huh Clarke? You trusting the decisions that I chose to make- always for the good of this camp. For the good of these people. And what reason do you have to be angry, Clarke? You know you wouldn’t have risked them for me, had the positions been reversed. So please, share with me your reasons, so I can understand why you’re being such a bitch.” He glared fiercely at her, fists clenched, though now they were mere millimetres away from each other, the mid-point of his bare torso almost touching the bottom of  her very much clothed one.

Clarke tried desperately to ignore their closeness, though the teenage girl inside of her battled to get through. She cleared her head, ignoring the heat that radiated off his chest, and instead focused on the fury within her. She closed her eyes briefly, taking a deep breath before she opened them, and her voice took on an eerie calmness, as she pointed a finger into his chest.

“I am angry, Bellamy, because what you did risked at least half of those people’s lives. I’m not angry that you had sex with Raven, I’m not even angry because my feelings are hurt, I am angry because I am the only kind of medical help this camp has, and I am the only one who knows how to treat their injuries properly. Do you know how many times they’ve accidently cut themselves or scraped a bit of skin? Sure it’s minor, but if that gets infected, that minor injury goes to major very quickly.” Clarke sighed, her anger coming quickly back in sparks of annoyance. Keeping a steely gaze on him, she continued, her words now striking at his skin like knives. “You think, when you left me, you left one person, but in turn, you were condemning 85 others- and you were _murdering_ them.”

Her finger still lay on his chest, though as she had spoken, she had watched the fight die in his eyes, her words hitting hard, slicing through the defences he had built up. They had never been this close to one another before, both panting and worn, but at the same time, she saw in his eyes, they’d never been further away.

He stared at her, their closeness throwing him off. She had hit him where she knew it would hurt, turned her earlier words of comfort into blades that cut him deep. He stepped away from her, deflated, and angry that she could have such an effect on him.

With nothing either one of them could say, he turned and left, bumping into Octavia on the way.

Clarke knew that she had to tell him that, to make him understand, but that didn’t stop the sliver of guilt from creeping up on her.

Bellamy Blake, he would be the death of her.

**\---**


	4. 4 - all the wrong reasons

** CHAPTER FOUR **

Clarke was going out of her mind.

It had been 3 days.

3 days.

And nothing had happened.

There had been no retaliation from the grounders, no news of Finn, if he was okay, or if..

Or if he was dead.

Bellamy hadn’t spoken to her in those 3 days, and the only real contact she had had with someone had been Octavia, who came in at least three times a day to check on her injuries. Though Clarke had insisted she really didn’t need to check that often, Octavia wouldn’t hear it.

On that third day, while Octavia sat gingerly tending to her cuts, Clarke began to again ask about Finn again, and the possibility of a search party.

“Octavia- look, just stop for a second, okay?” she commanded more than asked, shifting her leg away from Octavia’s firm, but gentle grip.

The dark-haired girl glared, huffing at the others pertinacious resistance to her own well-being.

“Clarke, you need to let me-“Octavia began durably, only to be quickly cut off by Clarkes own wilful voice, endurance running deep through her tone.

“No, Octavia. You need to _listen to me”_ Clarkes voice was almost a hiss now, and she found she was fed up of being treated of a child, fed up of being babied, when she knew Finn was out there, somewhere, and he _needed_ them.

Octavia sat back, resigned.

“We can’t just leave one of our own in the hands of the grounders; we don’t know what they’ll do to him! We don’t just leave people behind, we don’t just-“

Octavia cut her off, eyebrow raised. “Are you sure this is just about not leaving someone behind? Because, I think there’s more to it than that. I think, you want to go back to save Finn, because you have feelings for him, and you don’t want anything bad to happen to him, because you lov-“

“I don’t remember asking you what you thought.” Clarke seethed, cutting her off quickly before those strange words could hand empty in the air between them.

Clarke continued before Octavia could.

“I would do this for any camper taken by the grounders. And besides, Finn’s the best tracker we have.” She explained quickly, dismissing Octavia’s notions.

“So you’d do it for Bellamy, then?” Octavia countered quickly, challengingly.

This stopped her short.

She blinked, unable to answer for a moment.

Bellamy hadn’t done it for her. He’d left her to the grounders to be picked apart, and while she had been entrapped in a snare, dangling upside down in the forest, and wishing for a rescuer, he had been screwing Raven.

And as much as she told herself that she was pissed because he could have left the camp without a doctor, without a healer, she knew that deep inside her, just a tiny part, a microscopic part, was hurt for her own, more selfish reasons.

Hurt, because her life hadn’t been a priority, of course.

This had nothing to do with Raven.

Nothing at all.

Octavia stared at her, awaiting her answer, and Clarke shook her head of such ridiculous theories.

“Of- of course I would.” And she hated that she had hesitated, that she had stuttered.

But what she hated more, was that she’d hesitated and stuttered for all the wrong reasons.

 -------------

Octavia left the drop ship, ordering a couple of kids to stand guard, thwarting any possible escape plans Clarke would try to put in action.

She’d already tried 3 times.

She rolled her eyes, heading to see if there were any jobs that needed doing.

Bellamy just happened to be passing by when he bumped into her.

She glared huffily, attempting to side-step him, still angry over the poor decisions he had recently made. But this was her brother, and, of course, there was no way he was going to let her do that, as he snatched her arm between a single palm.

“Let go of me, Bellamy.” She said strongly, attempting to pry her arm away from his vice-like grip.

He was having none of that.

“Octavia, just listen to me for a sec.” He growled, but there was a tone of pleading beneath his words.

She was used to that.

“No.” She said plainly, now successfully pulling away from him. She began to walk away from him, but he easily caught up, an easy jog, and he was by her side.

“I know you’re mad at me, O, but I really thought Clarke was dead. If I’d known-“

She turned on her heel suddenly, surprising him as he look a small step backwards and narrowly avoided tripping over.

“If you’d known, you would’ve what? Done what you should have done in the first place, and sent a search party after her? How noble of you, _king._ ” She spat out, as if the words burned her tongue.

He winced slightly.

“I didn’t- I- “ He sighed unable to form the words.

Instead, he asked the question that had plagued him for the last three days.

“Is she okay?” His voice was quiet, and though subtly tinged with hope, behind it, there was relinquishment, as though he knew she would tell him nothing.

But he still had to try.

And yet, that didn’t mean he wasn’t still sullen.

Because he was, he was angry for the words she had turned on him. He was angry that she had twisted his vulnerability back on him, exposed the monster that lay within.

And he was angry he let himself believe, even if it was only for the briefest feltings of moments, that when she looked at him, she saw something..

Something that was more than he was.

Some more that was more than he could ever be, had had realized with a sickening apprehension.

But she was still Clarke Griffin, the perfect princess, and he was still worried.

Octavia saw the broken boy neath the stoic man, and she saw the concern for the blue-eyed girl, and despite the looming war, the missing teenager, and the possibility that families on the Ark were losing precious air by the second,

She smiled.

“She’s fine.” She said gently now, anger quickly fading.

As she left, she turned quickly to add with a mischievous grin,

 “She’s Clarke Griffin. How could she not be?”

\-------------


	5. 5 - of the flames

** CHAPTER FIVE **

Clarke didn’t sleep peacefully.

As Bellamy stared, he saw that even in her sleep, Clarke was plagued by the nightmares of the world. Her fists curled together tightly, and she held herself stiffly, her body curled into a ball. Each breath she took in seemed laboured and difficult, and occasionally, a stifled sob would rise from her chapped lips.

He really hadn’t _meant_ to stalk her. He just happened to be passing by, in the late of the night, when he heard Clarke, when he heard her muffled cry.

He’d thought perhaps she was in trouble, and that was the reason he had entered into the drop ship, to help her – because she was the healer.

Not because of anything else.

If she woke, he had his reasons for coming in.

But, he didn’t have his reasons for staying.

There was no way to tell how long he sat there, staring at the sleeping princess. Staring at the way her palms curled tightly into themselves, her nails digging into the soft pink flesh, staring at the way she wound her arms around her body, shielding herself from outside forces, staring at the way her lips would curve to fit soundless screams, shape to form terrified wails.

How he wished he could somehow find a way to rid her of the demons that infected her memories, that crawled into her dreams.

How he wished he could feel her soft pink lips-

Wait, what?

No, this was Clarke.

This was _Clarke Griffin._

The very same Clarke Griffin that had spat those words of poison at him for spacewalker.

He willed the anger to return to his body, pushed away thoughts that clouded his judgement. He had much bigger problems to deal with, and none of them centred around Clarke Griffin.

Outside, the first crack of light broke through the darkness, and Bellamy wondered just how long he’d allowed himself to be alone with his thoughts.

He shook his head, trying desperately to clear his head of sentiments that did not belong up there. Bellamy Blake’s mind had been crafted for warfare, not for ridiculous notions that focused on Clarke Griffin and her strangely addictive lips.

He violently shoved away these thoughts, and stomped away from the drop ship, seeking out someone who could help him with his little _problem._

\---

Clarke awoke the next morning sweating and restless. The fear still ran cold in her veins, as she recalled what she could remember of the night’s dreams.

She’d dreamt of fire. It’d consumed her slowly; wisps of toxic smoke surrounding her like a choking embrace. And every time she’d tried to scream, the inferno would work its way into her lungs, set her veins ablaze.

She’d burn, and burn, and burn, until she saw nothing, until she knew nothing but of the flames.

It was strange, but the more the fire surrounded her, the more addicted she became to the glowing embers, and the more she would want to feel the searing burn, watch it dance around her.

She felt sick.

Octavia came a few minutes after Clarke had roused, and though Clarke had not long been conscious, it seemed Octavia had been awake for hours.

She’d greeted Clarke with a warm smile, and immediately struck up a conversation.

“How did you sleep?” She asked kindly, reaching for fresh bandages.

“Good.” Clarke lied freely, offering a small turn of her lips for added effect.

“You?”

“Not so good. Bellamy kept me up with his incessant humping.” Octavia shuddered as she answered.

Clarke pulled a face. That was _really_ what she wanted to hear about first thing in the morning- Bellamy’s very active sex life.

Despite herself, she found that she was wondering if he had been with Raven.

She felt sick all over again.

And with that, she ordered Octavia to pass her something she could throw up into.

And then she retched into a pack.

It really wasn’t pretty.

Octavia was on high alert immediately.

“Oh god, what if there’s an infection? You could be really sick. Maybe it’s food poisoning, or-“

“Octavia, relax.” Clarke attempted to calm her. “There is such a thing as stress vomiting. I’m guessing that’s what this is.”

Octavia’s eyes softened into sympathy. Clarke _was_ under a lot of stress right now. She was worried about Finn, she was worried about an impending grounder attack, _and_ she and Bellamy had had a huge blowout that pretty much the entire camp had heard.

“Okay. It’s just stress. Calming down now.” Clarke couldn’t help but smile at the other girls concern. “Hey, you want some water?” She asked quickly, recalling that the taste of vomit in your mouth really wasn’t a nice one.

Clarke nodded weakly and quickly, lying back as Octavia left.

\---

As Octavia walked quickly across camp to get Clarke some water, she saw Bellamy and quickly made a U-turn, apologising to Clarke in her head.

“Hey!” She called, grabbing not only his attention.

She stalked towards him, and grabbed his arm, not bothering to be subtle as she yanked him away from the guards and into his tent.

She wasted no time.

“Next time you’re screwing around at 5 FUCKING AM do us all a favour and keep it down, okay?” She growled harshly, which in turn earned her a glare from her sibling.

“You’re always _so_ pleasant, O.” He bit sarcastically, clearly in no mood to be having this conversation with his little sister.

“I’m sorry, what was that? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of HOW FUCKING ANNOYING YOU ARE.” She snarled back.

Bellamy looked at her as if she were a child lacking serious discipline, and turned to leave, hoisting up the flap.

“Oh, Clarke’s good, by the way. I mean aside from the **stress vomiting** and all.” She added before he could leave.

He froze.

She was throwing up?

Well, shit.

\---

Clarke knew she wasn’t getting water any time soon.

She, along with at least 90% of the camp had heard the Blake’s screaming at each other.

Well. She says that.

She was pretty sure Bellamy’s voice wasn’t that feminine.

She sighed quietly, and didn’t open her eyes when she heard the flap open and someone step in.

She knew it was Octavia anyway.

She held out her hand for the cup of water, and waited for Octavia to place the cup in her hand.

“Clarke.”

That wasn’t Octavia.

Her eyes opened, and zoned in on the intruder.

“Bellamy.”

Her tone showed no emotion, flat and robotic.

“You’re sick.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Well done. How’d you figure that one out? Was it the overall healthy shine to my face, or the blood staining my bandages?” She questioned sarcastically, her tone betraying the flatness she had tried to cling to.

He had the audacity to glare at her.

“You know Clarke, you are- you’re just something else, you’re just such a -“He cut off with a bitter smile. “The only thing I came here to do was to check on you. You don’t have to be so, so-“

“Bitchy? I mean, that was what you called me, wasn’t it? Oh wait, no. My mistake, it was _bitch.”_

Clarke really didn’t take being insulted lightly. Especially when it came to Bellamy Blake.

“Oh, that’s good princess. Make me sound like the dick. No, that’s real classy.”

“Isn’t it? You know what else is _real_ classy, Bellamy? Leaving two people to _die.”_ She threw back.

He ground his teeth together. _God,_ she was annoying as hell sometimes.

“I’m not gonna get into this with you again, Clarke.”

“No, ‘course not. We all know you’d rather get into it with Raven.”

They always seemed to fight, no matter how good and true their first intentions were.

But this time, Bellamy knew he wouldn’t be able to take it if she threw those words at him again. So he closed his eyes, and he took calming breaths, so when he opened them again, they didn’t show hostility or anger.

They showed remorse.

The only thing was, hers sure as hell didn’t.

“Clarke, just listen to me, please. For one whole interrupted full minute. Do you think you can do that?”

She was _not_ going to be the immature one in this argument, so she nodded stiffly, though desperately wanting to scream at him again.

“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry that I left you to die, I’m sorry that I put the camp at risk when I left you to die, I’m sorry that I slept with Raven while I left you to die. I’m just.. I’m sorry. And I know you think I was being selfish, but you have to understand, I thought I was making the right decision, and doing the right thing.  I really thought that I was protecting them. I didn’t want any more people to die, because too many have already gone. I was just-“

He cut off suddenly, only now aware of how much he had said. He wasn’t ready to finish that sentence.

Not yet.

Clarke shielded the forgiveness in her eyes. Because she had, she had forgiven him, except he couldn’t know that just yet.

“Bellamy.” She said softly, tipping his chin up with her finger to meet her eyes.

He had stepped closer towards her before his apology, so now they were clearly in touching distance.

And Clarke took advantage of that.

“We need to go after Finn. I know you want to protect them, but he is one of them, one of us. We don’t leave people behind, no matter how scared we are. We stand together, and we’re stronger than we could ever be if we were separated.”

She smiled softy, and very gently placed her hand atop his.

“And surprisingly enough, we’re a family. Yes, we’re a dysfunctional, outlandish and certainly impulsive family-“

He laughed lightly, and she smiled grew brighter.

“But we’re still a family.” She finished tenderly, and he kept his gaze downward, on their touching hands.

“You’re right. We should go after Finn.” He said, and then smiled, teasing.

“Can’t leave my son to die, can I?”

Clarke raised an eyebrow, her eyes playful.

“Who ever said you were the dad?”

He grinned. “Well, princess, if you’re the mom-“

She scoffed, pulling her hand back.

“I am not the mom. I’m the cool aunt.”

He laughed. “Nope. Not even a little bit.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Right.”

“Wrong!”

“Right!”

And so began their first argument, that wasn’t really an argument.

**AWWWWW!**

**Mom and dad made up.**

**Hoooow many references there?!**

**Mom, dad, family. Whooh, that was a lot of effort.**

**The finale broke my heart, so of course we had to have the first sweet bellarke moment in this fanfic.**

**Anyone get the meaning I was attempting to convey behind Clarke's dream?**

**Okay my friends, remember to comment for me, because there is nothing more I like than to read your comments. (IT’S NOT SAD- IT’S SWEET.)**

**Byeeeeeeeeee**!


	6. 6 - broken illusions

** CHAPTER SIX **

Clarke was in the medic bay, packing away items for the days trek when Bellamy came to find her.

“You’re not going.” He’d announced, pushing away the flaps as if they were curtains, shielding a bright, sunny day.

Clarke felt anything but sunny.

“What?” She halted in the act of placing medical supplies into the pack, and turned to look at him, annoyance and shock written on her face.

“I said, you’re not going.” He repeated, coming to a standstill a little distance away from her. “I mean, in case you thought you were, and all.” He eyed the pack.

“What do you mean? Of course I’m going! None of you know where the grounder camp is, and-“

Bellamy cut her off very quickly, trying to avoid the fore brooding rant that hung over his head.

“Listen, Clarke. You were the one who made the point about your importance to the camp. You really think, I’m about to let you go barrelling off into the unknown, when we only just got you back?” He deadpanned, arms crossing over his chest.

Clarke ground her teeth together.

“I didn’t-“

“Think I’d turn your own words against you? What else would I do with those pearls of wisdom?”

Clarke struggled desperately for a rebuttal, though she saw the sense in his words.

“But you don’t even know where it is and-“

“Because you remember so vividly?”

“Well, maybe not  _vividly,_ but-“

“There you go. My guess is that you were tied up, blindfolded, and probably with gags in your mouth when they look you there. I mean, that is if you weren’t unconscious. Am I right?”

“I-“

“No, no. But,  _am I right_?”

Clarke nodded dully, knowing that if she even tried to get a word in this so-called debate, she’d be shut down quickly by the infamous king.

“There you go. You’re as clueless as the rest of us. And if you’re really insistent on helping, then you can try and remember the general direction you were headed in, give us a heads up on some of the traps. But, let me make myself very clear on this princess,”

He stepped closer towards her, so that they know shared the same breathing space, and they both ignored the rapid increase in their heartbeats.

“You’re not leaving this camp.”

His brown eyes pierced her blue ones, and though Clarke badly wanted to protest to this, at being what told to do- by  _Bellamy Blake_  of all people, she’d knew she be of better help here, tending injuries. That had been why she had been so angry before, hadn’t it? For the people of the camp. There were no other reasons.

None at all.

And besides, the last argument she and Bellamy had had, had ended strangely, with them in such a position, that if someone were to walk in, not knowing the background behind it, it would have looked like something much more than it actually was, it would have looked   _intimate._

She fought down the blush that reigned on her cheeks, and instead focused on Finn. On finding Finn, on  _helping_ Finn.

Finn, Finn, Finn.

Don’t let him see you blush, don’t let him see you blush,

aaaaaand we’re screwed.

Bellamy raised an eyebrow in question to the red on her cheeks, but Clarke shook her head, turned away, and tried to extinguish the blush that continued to grow.

“We’re wasting time. You should get going- Finn needs our help.” She mumbled, trying forlornly to turn the conversation around, bring it back to Finn.

Bellamy smiled a smile she could not see, and began on his way to leave, though at the last minute, turned back quickly, and said, “Hey princess,”

She turned swiftly, but almost immediately regretted it when she realised that the deep red still coloured her fair skin. Bellamy, of course, grinned at her unsettled state, though perplexity hid behind his smile.

“You look cute like that. Flustered really suits you.” He said it casually, though teasing and sincerity formed an odd mix beneath his words.

As he left, still smiling, she really couldn’t stop what flew from her lips next, apparently physically unable to give him the last word.

“And stupidity suits you!”

Half the camp turned at Clarke’s words, fearing a Mount Blake eruption, and yet Bellamy’s smile did not drop, but grew brighter, wider, and when he left camp to look for the spacewalker, he felt just a little bit lighter.

—-

Clarke was exhausted. Apparently, in her absence, the camp had tripled up on injuries, and it seemed there were not enough hours in the day to deal with all her waiting patients.

As she set her third dislocated arm, back into the socket, the murmurs in the camp grew louder, and from them, arose shouts of:

“Hey- Bellamy’s back!”

“What’s he carrying?”

“I dunno- looks pretty big.”

Clarke’s heart skipped a beat. Could it be? Had they found Finn? Was he okay? Was he-

The smile dropped from her face. That definitely  _wasn’t_ Finn. They hauled out their kill, another mutated coyote, and while excited gasps rose, Bellamy and Clarke’s eyes met over the crackling fire. Her eyes, once filled with hope, deflated even more at his expression. And all it took was a slight shake of his head, to have her biting at the inside of her cheek in a urge not to cry out-  _not_ to make a scene.

She wiped furiously at her eyes once inside her tent. It had been a day, and already she was acting like  _this?_  She wasn’t weak, she wasn’t going to cry when there were clearly more pressing issues at hand. She wasn’t allowed to be selfish, she’d done too much of that lately. It was time to grow up, and accept that the world was a dangerous place, and you couldn’t always get what you wanted.

Still, a single traitor tear slipped down her cheek.

“Clarke?” Octavia’s voice rose from behind her, and Clarke quickly wiped away the tear in what she hoped was subtly.

It really wasn’t.

“Hey, Clarke, c’mon.” Octavia said, turning her around gently, offering a small smile.

“I’m sorry.” She said softly, treading carefully around Clarke as though she was glass, broken glass, shattered by an illusion of love and hope.

What funny things they were.

Clarke didn’t want to be coddled, because that only made her feel worse. She didn’t want to be treated as if she were something so delicate, that a single jolt would tear her apart, because that made her want to fall apart, and in the cold new world, you had to adapt to the disappointment and fear.

She shook her head, tugging up the corner of her lips robotically.

“I’m fine. It’s fine. You have to get used to these things happening around you, right?” She shoved the ‘I’m-okay’ tone into her words.

Octavia didn’t believe it, not for a single second.

“Clarke, it’s okay to be angry, and it’s okay to be upset. They’re just human emotions, they’re not something to be ashamed of, we all get them and sometimes it’s okay to go a little psycho at the world.” Octavia attempted to assure her, reaching for her.

Clarke pulled away quickly, and said again “I’m fine, Octavia. Really. I don’t need to go ‘a little psycho.’ I can control myself better than that.”

“It doesn’t help to bottle them up, you know. That pent-up aggression’s gotta go somewhere, and if you don’t allow yourself to let it out in small, acceptable doses, then you’re gonna explode. It’s inevitable.” 

Clarke gritted her teeth for the second time that day, both times, effects of the Blake siblings.

“I don’t need to ‘explode,’ Octavia. I. Am. Fine.”

And with that, Clarke left the tent, heading up to the medic bay, when Bellamy stopped her, and snagged her arm between his hand.

“Hey, princess, look-“

“I’m fine, Bellamy.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t-“

“It’s not your fault. It doesn’t matter, I’m fine.”

Bellamy looked at her strangely, as though confused. Did he expect her to break? Did they  _all_ expect her to fall apart, from this one thing?

“Clarke-“

Clarke yanked her arm away, and attempted a small smile, though it offered Bellamy no assurance.

“I’m really, really fine. I promise. You should go check on Raven; she’s probably pretty beat up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have patients to tend to.”

And with that she left, spent the better part of the night healing, and focused purely on regaining the feeling of blissful detachment.


	7. 7 - shattering oblivion

** CHAPTER SEVEN **

Clarke had decided she adored the feeling of nothing.

She found herself wondering, why she had not detached herself from mainstream society sooner.

Not that there really was, a functioning, mainstream society to fall apart from. But she had let herself build relationships, come to care for people, dangerous people that broke through the layers of glass that protected her heart, captured her affection, and then tore away at it, tearing through it with no more than a single smile, and untrue words of promise.

What a silly little girl she had been.

Because now, she was able to look into the eyes of a past-been friend, and feel nothing, not a spark of happiness, not a smidge or remorse. Because this was earth, and to survive, you had to live to protect yourself, and it was the fourth day, that Clarke knew the extent she would go to, to do this.

She sat, tending to a long gash on Murphy’s leg, no anger rising with healing the man that had been responsible for Charlotte’s death.

She didn’t feel angry anymore, she didn’t feel anything, anymore.

Murphy, though he sat straight, held himself tensely, had a lazy, almost predatory smirk on his face as he watched her, mistaking her for being at the mercy of him.

“Thanks for fixing me up, princess.”

She didn’t even bristle at the nickname.

“Who would’ve thought it? The princess, serving the boy.”

She noticed the quick glint of silver.

“Well, to you, I guess, I’m more of a servant boy, right? Peasant?”

Clarke continued to ignore his snide remarks, focusing only of the bloody gash. Did he not see, he was at her mercy? If she really wanted, she could not fix him up properly, let he wound get infected, let him die a slow, agonizing death.

Just like she was sure he was planning for her, as the knife came down towards her head.

She had anticipated his movement, and while still in her own healing process, she spun out of the way, pulled a knife from his side, and plunged it into his bloody leg.

He screamed in pain, and Clarke mercilessly ripped the knife from his leg, and brought it to his face, ignoring the bright fear that had bloomed in his eyes.

“Please, please, don’t kill me, Clarke plea-“

His words became gargles as she stabbed him in the throat, his blood sprayed across her hands, her face, her neck, and his eyes, they stared up at her, wide and unblinking, staring into the whiteness that awaited his, and his mouth caught the desperate pleas that he never came, the breath he would never take.

“Oh my god.”

The words were Octavia’s, and as Clarke turned, she saw a crowd had gathered, all staring at her with wide, unblinking eyes.

Clarke couldn’t help but compare them to Murphy’s.

Octavia and Bellamy stood at the head of the crowd, their expressions completely different. Octavia stared at her in horror, her mouth hanging open, and with a jolt, Clarke saw that fear underlined it all.

Was Octavia scared of her?

Bellamy stared at her in question, and while he did not seem alarmed as the crowd did, he was clearly disturbed at the display. And yet, lowered beneath all of this, was a silent admiration.

And for a second, Clarke wanted to laugh, because she had killed a boy, and he respected her for it.

Octavia began to rush towards her, hands out in what seemed to be a caring gesture, but Clarke turned her back on her, and tore the knife from Murphy’s throat. When she turned back, Octavia had froze, no longer making any movement towards her.

She was definitely scared of her.

As she neared the crowd, knife in hand, they parted for her, as if they thought she was going to murder them too, plunge the knife into their throats.

Clarke envisioned pushing the knife into their throats, thrusting it into their hearts, again and again…

She walked straight past them all, and as she headed to clean the knife, she heard their hushed whispers…

“She’s lost it.”

“She’s fucking crazy.”

“I don’t trust her.”

“What if she tries to kill us?”

“Do you think Bellamy will banish her?”

“Maybe. She did kill Murphy.”

Clarke was already a murderer, Murphy made no difference to that.

\---

As the days went on, Clarke noticed the steady decrease of patients.

Where she used to be getting twenty a day, she now found that it was now strange to be seen by more than five.

They were avoiding her, and she knew that. But she wasn’t going to actively seek them out, if they wanted to let themselves get infected and die, then they could.

She also noticed that the injuries she was treating were always serious ones, ones that if left for much longer could become dire. This meant they were only coming to her, when they felt they absolutely had too.

Let the bastards fall asleep, and never wake up.

She pushed down the singlet of anger, the most passionate thing she had felt in days, even as she had killed Murphy, and regained her robotic exterior and interior display.

She let out a breath; let herself tumble into the oblivion, the beautiful oblivion…

“You alright there, princess?”

_Of course._

“I’m fine.”

And she was, she really was.

It just didn’t sound like it- that was all.

“You sure about that?” She turned and saw him staring at her with a strange expression, something hidden, and something she simply couldn’t decipher without going into an in-depth analysis of Bellamy Blake.

She didn’t have an in-depth analysis of Bellamy Blake.

“Positive.” She gave him a dull smile, passion and fierceness lacking.

She went to walk past him, and he caught her wrist.

She almost yanked it away on impulse, but kept her calm, and let her hand burn in his scorching wrist.

“Stop it.”

What?

She felt the confusion cross her face for a second, before she shoved it back down.

“Stop what?”

“ _It._ This- whatever the hell you’ve been doing for the last few days.”

 _“_ I’m not doing anything.”

She didn’t grit her teeth, like she did usually when they spoke.

He did.

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Clarke. Ever since spacewalker-“

She did snatch her hand away now, though she told herself it was only because the heat radiating from his hand had been too hot, her skin scorched.

There were no other reasons.

None at all.

“Is that how to do it, princess?”

He was smirking now, as if he knew something she didn’t.

She didn’t like it- not one bit.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She wondered how hard it would be to cover up his death. She could say it was an accident…

“I’m talking about spacewalker.”

No one would blame her, really.

“I’m talking about your mom.”

She could say it was self-defence; he was a guard, after all.

“I’m talking about how I had sex with Raven while you rotted away in grounder territory.”

There was a knife around here somewhere.

“You and Finn, that is.”

A gun. She would put a fucking gun to his head.

“Oh, what _would_ daddy think?”

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY?” Clarke screamed, shoving against his chest.

This was the first emotion he had seen from Clarke in days, and though it was blinding hot rage, set directly in his line of fire, he loved it.

He caught her hands.

“Your father- what would he say to you- if he could see all that you’d become?”

She screamed in something of fury and anguish, tore her hands away. She ran to the side, picked up a knife, and threw it at his head.

It was easy to dodge, her throw fuelled not by accuracy, but rage. But Bellamy knew, perhaps he had pushed her just a little too far.

She continued to throw whatever came to hand at him, from boots to cloths.

“Clarke-“He ducked as a glass bottle came towards him, shattering with a horrible hiss behind him.

And now she was throwing medicine.

If that wasn’t a terrible idea, he didn’t know what was.

“Okay now- is that really a good idea?” He yelled over the crashing of just about _everything_ coming towards him.

“YOU”

A blue liquid.

“FUCKING”

Something red and sticky.

“BITCH!”

And now some seaweed.

“Come on, seaweed?” he asked, cocking his head to the side in a _really?_ kind of way.

She screamed again, turned her back on him for a split second to gather more supplies, and he was on her, pinning her hands above her head, holding her body in place with his.

“LET GO OF ME!” She screeched, kicking out at him with everything she had.

He let her struggle and squirm beneath him, knowing there was no point reasoning with her when she was like this.

He waited for her to calm down.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

“For fucks sake! Clarke- Clarke just stop for a second!”

She stopped, only to glare at him, prepared to throw everything she had at him, yell at him about his mom, about Octavia. She was going to _destroy_ him.

She opened her mouth to speak, and his lips attacked hers.

**TO BE CONTINUED…**


	8. 8 - an inevitable affair

** CHAPTER EIGHT **

Jasper bobbed nervously. What were they _doing_ in there?

Bellamy had followed Clarke into the drop ship a little while earlier, and he’d told Octavia and Jasper that he was going to ‘free the beast’ – whatever the hell that meant. He’d warned them to keep everyone out, told them there was going to be an explosion of sorts.

Octavia noticed Jasper’s nervous fidgeting as she passed, and she grinned at him.

“Stop worrying so much, Jasper. I’m sure they’re fine.” Octavia tried to reassure him, but she saw he still looked uncertain, waiting for something awful to happen, it seemed.

“They’ve been in there a really long time. And the shouting just.. stopped- that was ages ago. What if she’s killed him? Oh, god, WHAT IF BELLAMY’S DEAD?” Jasper suddenly yelled out, causing a fair few female patrons to look at him in horror.

“Jasper, keep your damn voice down!” Octavia growled at him, snatching his arm and bringing him to the side. “Bellamy isn’t _dead._ He probably just calmed her down. I’m sure they’re both absolutely fine. “

Jasper looked at her sceptically.

“Clarke sounded pissed. _Really_ pissed. How would Bellamy be able to calm her down from that?” He said, raising an eyebrow in both question, and internal wonder.

Octavia looked a little questionable herself now. She knew from an enlightening experience with Murphy that Clarke was hard to calm down in her outrage. And from the noises she heard inside- that was definitely outrage.  What could Bellamy possibly do to calm her down from that?

She heard a shout, and she looked back, fearing Clarke was on the warpath once again, but Bellamy emerged instead, a confident smirk set upon his lips.

Octavia walked towards immediately, soon to bombard him with questions, but as he saw her approaching, he held up a hand to prevent any words from flying out of her mouth.

“Before you ask me anything, I’m gonna answer all your questions. Yes, I’ve fixed Clarke, no, I’m not going to tell you why, yes, everything’s going to go back to normal, and no, I’m not going how or why, and no, Clarke is no longer pissed or on the warpath, and no- I’m not going to tell you why.” He finished, smiling with his explanation.

Octavia glared at him. She wasn’t going to ask _all_ of those questions…

Okay, maybe she was, but still…

“Your lip’s bleeding.” She pointed out, eyes falling on the small indentation on his bottom lip. He grinned at her, and wiped at it with his sleeve, rolling his eyes.

She too, rolled her eyes at him.

“You should let Clarke fix that up.” She said, beginning to steer him back towards to drop ship, but he pulled his arm from his grasp, and his grin grew wider.

“Nope. I wanna remember this one.” He replied, his grin implying he knew something she didn’t.

“What? The injury and the metallic taste of blood?” She asked sarcastically, crossing her arms over her body. He simply shook his head, the brightness of the grin never failing.

“The start of the events set in motion.” He replied mysteriously, leaving Octavia to wonder just what the hell he was talking about.

\---

Jasper sat next to Clarke by the fire. They were stripping one of the hunters kill – a fox – and cooking the pieces over the fire, using sticks to hold them up. They did this without talking; both wondering on quiet reflection, until Jasper noticed Clarke was just a little bit out with her placing.

As in, her meat was nowhere near the fire.

“Clarke.” He nudged her arm gently, trying to drag her attention away from the starlight above them.

She did nothing.

“Clarke.” He said a little louder, waiting for her response. Yet, as with the first time he’d tried to call her, her focus remained purely on the shining stars above them, fascination evident upon her delicate features.

It wasn’t the stars that fascinated her.

 Drastic times call for drastic measures, Jasper thought with a careless shrug. He brought his lips right next to Clarkes ear, and all but screamed, “CLARKE!”

She almost jumped out of her seat, and the meat roasting flew into the air, before flopping pitifully on the ground. She turned back on Jasper with a glare.

“Jasper! What the hell?” She asked in both irritation and bewilderment. He looked at her incredulously.

“Seriously? I called you twice before, and you didn’t answer! Your meat wasn’t getting any heat, and I was trying to tell you.” He explained, and realization dawned on her face, followed by a slow embarrassment that dusted her cheeks.

“Really?” She asked, biting her lip. He nodded, smiling a small smile. She looked down, flushed.

“I’m sorry. I was just- just somewhere else, I guess.”

The faint pink still scattered faintly on her cheeks, she let her blonde hair fall around her like a curtain, shielding her from Jasper’s detecting gaze.

“And where would that be?” He asked casually, and though he wasn’t one to pry, it was a rare occurrence for Clarke not to be focused on the task at hand, and general curiosity, though sometimes a dangerous thing to have on earth, now controlled the decisions he made and the words that came out of his mouth.

 She shook her head, and through a gap in the shield of her hair, he thought that he caught a small, secretive smile pan out across her lips.

“Nothing.” She replied, though he could hear the smile beneath her words. And beneath nothing, there was definitely something.

And Jasper wanted to know what that something was.

“Come on, I won’t tell.” He said, trying to persuasive, as he shifted closer to her, eagerly awaiting her words.

She was shaking her head again now, but the grin on her face had grew wider, cheekier, and it was the happiest, non-robotic Clarke he’d seen, in well... ever, really.

Her gaze returned to the stars once more, and she saw how she looked at them now. She looked to them for answers, as if they could answer questions she’d thought she’d never have to ask. He realised they were getting really off topic, and that they should be cooking for the camp, but he didn’t dare interrupt her thoughts as it seemed her secrets were to soon follow.

She looked at him, a slow, cryptic smile finally settled upon her lips.

“I was simply thinking how much longer I could prevent an inevitable affair.” She said, gaze unwavering.

He looked at her curiously.

“And how much longer would that be?” He questioned, cocking his head to one side.

She fidgeted, suddenly raked with nerves.

“I.. I really don’t know.”

And he was left to wonder on Clarke’s wonder.


	9. 9 - aching affections

** CHAPTER NINE **

He recalled the way of her lips against his, the ways his arms had found themselves wound so tightly around her slim waist, crushing them flat against one another, and how he had found, that here, pressed up against her like this, the need for oxygen was little, and much preferred not being able to breath if it felt like this, the burning need for air flickering down to a dying flame.

He thought for the briefest of fleeting moments, that perhaps, her soft lips would slip open against his, thought that perhaps she would fall into the tangled embrace, and he’d be lying to himself, if he said he wasn’t disappointed when he felt the loss of her lips, as she’d pushed away from him. Well, technically, he’d been the one to pull away, as she’d dug her teeth into his bottom lip with such a force, that blood rose to the injury with a hot blossom of immediate pain.

 _“Feeling kinky there, huh, princess?” He said, still grinning, as he brought his sleeve up to wipe at the blood smeared on his lip. But she didn_ ’t _offer a retort, only stood staring at him. Her lips were swollen from his heated force, and she was panting heavily, almost drowning in the air. She was still pressed against the cold metal of the drop ship’s thick walls, though his weight didn’t pin her down now. He couldn’t help but let the smirk playing on his lips take solid form – who knew he could have this effect on the princess?_

_He saw the shock slowly drain from her features, saw her let malice fulfil the empty space._

_But still, the reddening heat on her cheeks hadn’t died down. If anything, it’d grown brighter, warmer._

_His smirk didn’t falter._

_She only glared, not intending for her voice to come out so small. ”What the fuck are you_ doing _?”_

As he watched her now, he was unsurprised at the urgent passion he found shining in her bright, blue eyes. Clarke Griffin was that of a comet, moving with such a pace, and such a sure desperation towards the stars, that if you could not match her in your own livelihood, could not arm yourself with the surging hope that stemmed deep inside her, you were left behind to watch her cut through the sky- the greatest privilege a lesser man could have, to witness.

Bellamy wondered where this growing admiration for the girl was coming from, the scarily lengthening affection. He’d knew the respect he had for her had ran deep in his veins for a long while now, but slowly the view he had of her was changing, altering into something that confused him. He’d always regarded her as a leader, saw the logic in the decisions she made, but now, he felt inclined to see past this, find admiration for her person, as though it were not a choice, but a purpose.

And it was all her damn fault.

If she had been the egotistical, materialistic, foolish little princess that her title had claimed her, it would make his view on her so much easier, so much more one dimensional. But of course, she was Clarke Griffin, and nothing with her was easy.

\---

Clarke scattered the pale pink petals over her mother’s grave.

Of course, her mother’s body wasn’t actually in there, as the bodies they’d discovered on the exodus ship were charred and burned beyond recognition, but Clarke had still come out here, and dug up an empty grave for her mother, so she could at least offer herself some form of comfort.

She bent down, and ran her fingers softly over the soil, sighing in contempt. Even if her mother was gone, she still had the happy memories, and here, at her grave, she felt this was the place she was closest to them, this was the place she could recall the smell of burnt protein packs, (don’t even ask why her father had attempted to _cook_ a protein pack..) the way she’d cursed at her father for the clogging smell, and the way she’d laughed and squealed as her mother and father had chased her around their small pod, dangerous fingers poised to pinch at her sides.

She closed her eyes for the briefest of moments, drawing patterns on the soft soil spreading at her feather-light touch.

She opened them again quickly when a twig snapped in the trees.

She shot up from her position, cursing inwardly when he realised she hadn’t brought a gun with her. _Again._ If Bellamy was here, he’d already be telling her how stupid it was to go outside camp walls without protection.

For what had to be at least the second time in her life, she wished him to appear, rifle in hand.

And for what had to be the second time in her life, he didn-

“Princess?”

Well, she’d be damned.

“Yeah, I’m here!” She called over her shoulder, and he appeared next to her, frowning at the empty space between her shoulder blades- where the gun strap should’ve been hanging.

“Seriously? _Again?_ Tsk, tsk, princess. If you make the rules, you really gotta follow them.” He scolded, shaking his head in mock disappointment. She held out a hand to singal quiet, and her eyes once again returned to the hidden woods.

He followed her eye, but saw nothing beneath the green shrubbery.

He turned back them, looking at her curiously. “What is it, Clarke?”

She shook her head, her gaze unwavering as she stared at the trees, mentally unpicking at the greenery, and staring at the secrets it held.

Well, trying to anyway.

“I could’ve sworn..” She trailed off, unable to finish her sentence. Because she couldn’t have sworn anything, she’d only thought that she may have heard a twig snapping.

She tried again.

“I thought.. I thought I heard..”

Bellamy raised an eyebrow. “You been eating any nuts lately, princess?”

She shook her head, cracked a small smile now, but still refused to meet his eye.

She was still embarrassed.

Bellamy slung an arm over her shoulder, and began to guide her back towards the small entrance in the wall. Clarke attempted to worm underneath it, attempt to loosen his hold, but his grip on her was firm, anticipating her reaction.

“Come on, princess. Looks like I’m gonna have to _glue_ the gun to your shoulder. You know, with something industrial.” She glared at his laughing form.

Hell if he was doing anything _industrial_ to her.

Like, anything at all.

Damn her mind.

She ignored the way his fingers delved deliciously into her shoulder, hating and loving his touch. She decided to focus on sarcasm instead- that was always a good substitute.

“Hey, cave man, mind loosening up on your grip there? I might actually need to use that arm.”

They stood at the entrance, but Bellamy didn’t slacken his hold. “But, princess, what if the grounders come? This is merely a form of protection – since you seem so hell bent on getting yourself killed.”

She glared, ducking under the entrance.

She turned back just in time to see the pain mask his face, as an arrow flew inside him.

**\---**


	10. 10 - cause and effect

** CHAPTER TEN **

The shrieking of gunshots surrounded her.

Clarke’s eyes widened round, a sharp jolt clawing against her usually soft features. Bellamy’s arm shot out to steady himself, and his shaking palm found her shoulder, to which he clung to, and the sudden despairing clinging brought her out of her momentarily dazed state, she made haste work or drawing her arm underneath his shoulders.

She helped him hobble into the safety of the walls, turning her head back into the dense undergrowth, and ducking swiftly as an arrow flew dangerously close to her head.

She hurled her body behind the walls, watching as more arrows flew by. They seemed to be coming from only one direction, which meant only one person was letting arrows fly.

It didn’t mean there was only one person was there.

She turned her head as Bellamy let out a low, agonized groan.

He still clung to her small frame for support, and despite the screaming of war around her; Clarke knew this had to be treated- _now._

His large frame was too heavy though, and she ordered Jasper and Octavia to her side, both of them coming quickly and willingly as they inspected the damage done to the older man.

They dragged him to the drop ship, and his moans continued, though becoming quieter, more distant.

They lay him down as gently as they could without causing him further harm, or disrupting the arrow inside his leg. His fists still clenched, and the sweat still beaded around his forehead.

She looked down now at his injury, stress and fear quickly consuming her. She remembered her mother’s words of advice as she had been training by her side once, _‘emotional detachment is important if it’s someone you know,’_ she’d said, as she’d smoothed down Clarke’s golden strands. _‘You’re there to help them and to be a doctor, not a friend.’_

But Bellamy wasn’t her friend.

Was he?

She pushed the thoughts away. This was important. She couldn’t think of these things now. Emotional detachment. Yes, this was good. Repeating the thoughts like a mantra, she looked down to his leg.

The arrow was deep inside his leg, though it hadn’t gone all the way through. The arrowhead was still inside his lower calf, but the feathers at the end danced, and she thought she may be losing her mind, when it looked as if they swirled in almost a mocking manner.

The three looked to her, but she only looked back at him, at Bellamy, an unhelping apology on the tip of her tongue.

“It’s not gone all the way through, but it’s deep…”

She looked him dead in the eye.

“I’m gonna have to push it through.”

He winced, recoiled away from the words, and Octavia and Jaspers features both formed to take on identical looks of horror.

“What? Clarke, no! Can’t you just-“ Octavia began quickly, only to be quickly interrupted by Clarke as she turned and rummaged through the room.

“No, Octavia, I can’t. I can’t pull the arrowhead out without risking damaging something very, _very,_ important. The wounds deep, I won’t have to push it through so much.”

She picked up two large daggers, and turned back to face them.

“The alternative is cutting through his leg to dig it out. And I don’t want to do that.”  

Octavia nodded dimly, and Bellamy eyed the blades in her hands.

She handed them to Jasper.

“I’m gonna need you to heat the blades.”

Jasper became very pale, and for a moment, Clarke was reminded of the boy who was speared through the chest, but then he was accepting the blades, and nodding in the projected appearance of confidence, and Clarke saw the boy that had risked his life for a girl that had yet to fall in love with him.

“Blade _’s_?” Bellamy croaked weakly from where he lay, fear flickering like a flame in his eyes.

She nodded. Emotional detachment, emotional detachment. “Entrance and exit wound.”

He noticeably shrank back.

She came to his side, eyes falling on the arrow as she prevented a squirm.

“Bellamy, listen to me. However… uncomfortable this is, you have to stay as still as possible, okay? It’ll make things much, much easier.” He looked at her, fear making quick work of him, and she tried to smile in a reassuring way, though she was as scared as he was.

He nodded quickly, and dragged his eyes away.

“Do it now.” He spoke through gritted teeth, and closed his eyes as he awaited the explosion of pain.

She positioned her hands on the arrow, her fingertips brushing against the soft feathers…

and pushed it through his leg.

He screamed, though threw his fists down to stop himself from yanking his leg away. The tip now poked out through his leg, coated in his blood, as though a thick red wine had spilled down his leg.

She moved quickly to his other side, and ordered Octavia to pass her the alcohol. She broke the arrowhead, her fingers stained with his blood, and doused a cloth in the alcohol.

She pressed it to where the arrowhead had been, trying not to stare at the exit wound on his leg. He didn’t scream this time, though his groan was of such suffering, that Octavia let out a muffled cry.

Jasper almost fell into the drop ship, cauterized blades in hand and she nodded, holding a finger up in a quick wait. She returned to Bellamy’s other side, where the arrow shaft still stuck out of his leg prominently, and tried desperately to avoid those pained, scared eyes.

“I’m really sorry.” She choked out, before pulling the shaft out of his leg, drops of blood flying against her face. His blood was on her lips and on her cheek, and caught in her eyelashes, but he was screaming and now trying to thrash that Jasper and Octavia now came to hold him down.

Jasper passed the daggers to Clarke, and moving in front of him now, she paused for only a second, before pressing the boiling blades against his skin.

She knew his deafening, excruciated bawls would come to haunt her in the night, but she remained still, focusing on trying to help him.

_Emotional detachment, emotional detachment._

His screams faded, they became whimpers eventually, as the heat of the blade died, and he was panting and throwing his head back in exhaustion and shock, and she was pulling her lip into her mouth without thinking about it, and tasting his blood.

She went outside, she went behind the drop ship, and she vomited.

\---

She had been so preoccupied with Bellamy, that she hadn’t noticed that the sound of bullets had stopped very quickly.

Even before she’d pushed the arrowhead through Bellamy’s leg.

She turned, walked cautiously through the trees, and found Miller staring back at her.

“Clarke, Clarke! We took her down! She’s not dead, but she was in the trees, and she was the only one and-“He cut off from his ramble, and Clarke thought he must be staring at the blood dotted around her face.

She ignored him, and thought over his excited words. Only one? No, it couldn’t be right. They had to be hiding, hiding somewhere.

“What do you mean, Miller?” She asked wearily, though on alert, fearing of what awaited her.

The answer was unexpected.

The reaction was too, as a vindictive smile grew wide on pale lips.

“It’s Anya, Clarke. It’s her.”

_TO BE CONTINUED…_

 


	11. Chapter 11

** CHAPTER ELEVEN  **

“ANNNYAA!”

The tribal scream carried across the large camp space, piercing above the low drone of dull chatter. The people winced against the Commander’s voice, harsh and jarring against their ears. Some of the warriors looked up, their faces slick with paint, and stilled in the act of readying their weapons, distilled at the disturbance.

The Commander’s large frame came into view, his dark features twisted, scarred lips pulled up in a vicious snarl. His dark eyes skittered across the people, and they recoiled away from his demeaning stare. He clenched his fists, and his body shook with an undeniable rage.

Someone had broken the law.

Tristian came to kneel in front of his superior, head bowed in respect, and eyes cast downward, towards the Commander’s expensive boots.

“Sir.” He said only, and the people’s chatter stilled completely, and though they did not bow, they downcast their heads in a display of honouring the Commander’s high position.

“Where is she?” He snarled gruffly, automatically coming to rest a hand on the blade that fell past his hip.

“Gone, sir. She killed the guards on watch last night, stole their weapons and ran.” Tristian said, and with his head still bowed and his face out of sight, he let a small, smug smirk fall on his lips. From where he kneeled, he saw the veins in the Commander’s clenched fists pop, heard his breaths become harsher, _felt_ his anger skyrocket, shatter into an indisputable blood thirst.

The Commander roared out obscenities, cursed Anya to the sky, and unsheathed his blade, clenching it in his hand, and imagining using it to slit her traitor throat.

Tristian rose, almost timidly, keeping an eye on the Commander, ready to swing out of the way if he had too. The Commander was prone to an occasional fit of unleashed wrath, but this… this was something else entirely.

And Tristian was just about to add onto it.

“Sir.” He spoke quietly, very aware that the Commander had killed a man for less than being the messenger.

The beast spun round to face him, ever shining sword in hand, and glared holes in his little defences. “What?” He bit out, the words like poison.

Tristian took a few, very small, discreet step backwards, the Commander noticed anyway, and spoke.

“Sub Noctem – it’s been opened.”

\---

The bullet had hit her through the shoulder.

Miller had been the one to do it, though he’d actually been aiming for the heart. Clarke found herself wishing it’d been an arrow, not a bullet, just so she’d been able to treat Anya as she’d had to with Bellamy, only this time, it’d be a pleasure to watch the pain on her face.

When she caught herself hoping this, she tried to stop thinking.

They’d dragged her inside, and she’d been thankful when she’d seen Bellamy had fallen asleep, or perhaps he’d passed out from the pain, so he wouldn’t have to watch them when they dragged her to the second level, tied her up where they had with Lincoln.

She tried not to think about that either.

The bullet had gone all the way through her shoulder, so they only had to deal with the bleeding. She pressed and tied some material in place against her shoulder, but she didn’t try to stich it up.

She’d do that later.

Anya stared at Clarke with those dark black eyes, they were like coal, and Anya was clearly all fire and all burning. She didn’t let the pain show on her face, as Clarke never had when Anya had beat her, but only stared her assessing gaze.

Anya was waiting.

She was waiting for something.

“Why did you come alone?” Clarke asked, ignoring the other presences in the room, and focusing only on Anya, awaiting her answer.

Of course, she didn’t actually answer.

“ **Why did you come alone**?” She asked again, emphasising each word, each syllable that rolled from her lips.

Anya said nothing.

Miller moved forward, as if to strike her, if the mask of anger set upon his features was anything to go by. She put up a pale hand to stop him, only slightly surprised when he complied, halting in little shock, before retreating into the small group behind her.

Clarke sighed thoughtfully, cocking her head to the side. Why _had_ Anya come alone? Surely the grounders had an army waiting to attack, poised to strike, hit them at their weakest points, so why had Anya come alone, practically defenceless once recognized? She’d only be able to get one hit really, no real damage, (Bellamy was fine now, and he would get better, so he hardly counted) so what was the point?

Surprise attack? No, Anya was very clearly alone, not even grounders could hide that well.

So what…?

Not unless…

“Unless… no-one wanted to come with you.”

Anya twitched.

“You wanted to attack us, attack us now, but someone, someone disagreed.”

Anya looked at her now, all fire and burning.

“Someone with more power than you.”

If looks could kill, Clarke would be dead ten times over.

“Someone who controls you.”

Twenty times over, that was.

“And I’m thinking it’s someone, that’s now _really_ pissed off with you.”

Her dark eyes flickered for a moment, and Clarke couldn’t help but smile a little, smug smirk, because she’d been able to deduce Anya, see past those shielded eyes, and they hadn’t hurt her.

They hadn’t had to torture her.

She was proud.

That was until, Miller piped up behind her.

“But who’s ‘ _someone_ ’? What, is he like the chancellor of the earth or something?”

She turned to look at him, find him staring at her quizzically, but behind that, something like awe, at how quickly the clogs in her brain had turned. Because none of them could do in an hour, what she’d done in a matter of seconds.

She shrugged, turned back to face Anya, and smiled slightly. “Something like that.”

\---

“When did it get so bright in here?” Bellamy asked, bringing up a hand to cover his eyes as Clarke came into his tent.

“Probably sometime around 6am. You know, day time and all.”

He glowered half-heartedly at her as she came to stand by his lounging figure. He’d insisted he move back to his tent, though Clarke had insisted it would be safer for him to remain in the med bay, where she could check up on him frequently to make sure infection or fever didn’t arise.

He’d won the argument eventually though, saying he didn’t want to be near Anya.

Clarke had understood.

“You’re funny, princess.” She ‘mm’ed’ at that, and moved to the bottom of his bed to check up on his leg. “So, how is the grounder? Saying anything yet?”

She shook her head a solid no. “She’s keeping quiet. She didn’t confirm or deny my theory, but I don’t think her and her tribe are on speaking terms right now.” Her fingers brushed gently over the scar on his calf, and they both ignored his slight shiver.

“You really think she just went off on her own?” He questioned, propping himself up on an elbow.

“I think it’s highly possible. She doesn’t exactly like us very much.” She reminded, checking the skin around his tanned leg.

“Neither does her t-tribe.” She looked up at the slow slur of his words.

“Bellamy, are you okay?” She asked now, standing to hover above him, and place a hand on his forehead. He shook it off quickly.

“Hey, Bellamy, what-“and then he was sitting up straight and they were suddenly very close and his lips were hovering close to hers as they once had when she’d pulled away after he’d kissed her.

Her eyes shot up to his, and she saw that he was looking at her, but he wasn’t looking at _her,_ and his pupils had dilated, and they were dark and flashing, and they were strange, but in a really good way, that could only mean a bad way, and she now noticed the sweat that was beading on his forehead, the tanned skin on his face suddenly looking very pale.

“Bellamy, what are you-“she began to say, moving to put distance between them when Octavia’s voice carried Clarke’s name across the camp. Octavia was suddenly in the tent, eyeing briefly their close distance before she was saying: “Anya, Clarke, she’s speaking. Come and see, come on!”

Octavia dashed out of the tent, and Clarke moved to follow her running form before momentarily turning back to Bellamy, who had now slouched down, and looked confused.

“Just… just stay here. I’ll be back.” And she raced after Octavia.

\---

Anya was smiling when Clarke climbed up the ladder.

She didn’t like it.

“It’s time.” She’d said, before Clarke had a chance to say anything.

“What?” Clarke replied, ever aware of Octavia and Jasper’s (he’d been on watch) looming presence behind her.

“That arrow,” she began, as if Clarke hadn’t spoken a word. “It was never meant for him, you know. It was for you, and it is such a pity he got in the way.”

She grinned, and her teeth were pointed and sharp, like fangs.

“What are you talking about?” She asked again, vaguely aware of the small amount of desperation that had seeped into her voice.

Anya threw her head back and laughed.

It was an awful, grating sound, like nails against a chalkboard.

“Of course, it’s not enough for immediate death. But enough time, two days, maybe. It’ll be painful, for sure.”

Clarke had no idea what she was talking about and she hated it.

“I was going to have fun with you, you see. But watching you suffer, that might suffice.” Her ear-splitting grin remained ever in place.

Clarke had been so proud, so proud of deducing Anya. Yet, she’d always had the upper hand, she saw that now. Anya waited an excruciatingly long time before she spoke again, sensing the desperation off the three like dogs.

She was having a _fantastic_ time.

“We call it sub noctem.” She continued, breezily, uncaringly, and if her hands weren’t chained above her, she might have looked down to inspect a nail.

“Nightshade.”

And Clarke was out of the dropship, and she was running as fast as she could towards Bellamy.

And was terrified, and because it might have been too late.

**Comment me your thoughts.**


	12. 12 - the voices that call

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

_The dim lighting above Bellamy shuddered, creaking eerily as it swung slowly from side to side. It showed only little of the seemingly vast, shadowy room. The light cast no extinguisher to the darkness, only enough of a dull gleam to cast a murky effect on the space, shadows clawing at the walls and swirling through the empty air._

_He took in quick, unsteady breaths, struggling to latch onto a rational thought. Memories and feelings spiralled around him, flashing by him like fireflies, moving too quickly for him to catch and contain. He blinked drearily, taking a few unsteady steps. The ground underneath him felt hard and steady, and so he continued on through the darkened expanse, moving in what he hoped was north._

‘Bellamy.’

_The word bounced in his mind, and he turned with a start_

‘Bellamy _.’_

 _It came again, rocking around harder in his mind this time. The hairs of the nape of his neck shot up, his heartbeat becoming frantic with a creeping sense of fear. He_ knew _the voice, he recognized it, but when he tried to put a face to it, he came up short._

_He was scared._

_His first instinct was to run, where to he didn’t know, but he would try, try to outrun the voice that echoed emptily inside his head._

_Asif the ground had known, as if it were able to understand what he was thinking, the ground became soft under his padded boots, pulling him into the mud, and enabling him to run anywhere._

_The voice continued saying his name, and though he saw the attempt to be soothing and gentle, it was like it was mocking him. Telling him everything was okay, when really everything was anything but._

_He struggled against the bounds of the ground, though only sinking deeper. He began to panic further, his heartbeat skyrocketing, as the soil encased his hips._

‘BELLAMY!’

_The voice screamed against his skull, shrill and wild, and it felt like something had shattered. He yelled out in overwhelming pain, his hands reaching to try and tear away at the voice. Only it wasn’t one voice now, but hundreds, all screaming his name, all echoing inside his head. He roared, digging his nails further, reaching his fingers inside gooey contours, the flesh tearing away like paper. It dropped beside him, the skin off his head, though he took no notice as the voices continued their assault, digging away until he felt something pop._

_He tore his body away from the sinking hole finally, running deeper into the darkness, not stopping, until the voices became hushed whispers, eventually fading into the nothingness of the darkness._

_He collapsed against the ground, and wound himself tightly into a ball, bringing his torn head to rest between his knees, holding himself like that, until his trousers soaked with blood._

_.         .        ._

Clarke held a cold rag against Bellamy’s head, motioning for the boys holding him down to release him. When she’d found him, she’d saw him passed out on the tent floor, sweat beading on his forehead, and eyes wide and unblinking. He’d lashed out when she’d tried to say his name, and she’d had to call people to hold him down. He’d only grown more aggressive with the sudden weight on him, and all the voices trying to wake him from whatever state he was in.

That’s what this was.

She was so s _tupid._ She’d been so concentrated on not focusing on it being Bellamy she was pulling the arrow out of, she’d let herself slip, forgetting to check the arrow. _Of course,_ it was coated in something. Anya wouldn’t come with just any old arrows. She should’ve known.

_Why hadn’t she known?_

Her mother had never had the chance to tell her about nightshade, never expecting her to come across it, she thought. But she’d read about it a book, once. It was a plant, one of the most wicked ones on the earth. She guessed that the arrow tip had been coated in the juice of the berries, which caused hallucinations, slurred speech, confusion, and a strange darkness to the eyes, where the pupils were blown w _ay_ out of proportion.

Seductive, the book had said.

If the dosage was too high, or if it wasn’t treated quickly enough… then Bellamy was going to die.

It wouldn’t be quick either. He’d be in constant pain, flashing in and out of consciousness. She couldn’t imagine what he was seeing, what he was feeling.

There was a cure, there was. She remembered…

_something._

She remembered something, but it was hidden away, hidden behind more significant memories, newer ones.

She didn’t know what to do.

_What did she do?_

She raked her hands through her hair, thinking, scanning her mind for anything. _Anything._ Anya had said two days, it would take two dies before he subdued to death.

Which meant she had 24 hours.

And the clock was ticking.

**_Don’t kill me! I know I haven’t updated in forever and this chapter isn’t very long or detailed, but that’s kinda the point. I apologize for my amazingly late update, but I swear I actually have been a little busy with school projects and work, and I’ve sorta been lacking inspiration to actually sit down and write. Anyway, my chargers broken and my laptop’s dying, so I gotta go!_ **

**_Tell me what you thought, and how Bellamy’s going to get out of this one. (IF, he’s going to get out of this one, that is…)_ **


	13. 13 - a broken crown

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

**See notes at the end**

On some level, Clarke knew what she was doing was wrong.

She’d been raised by good people, who’d taught her that hurting other people was wrong, and that you should always use your words, before resorting to violence. Bloodshed never got you anywhere, they’d said.

It wasn’t just that though, because Clarke had ethnics. A sense of morality, what was right and what was wrong. She cared about the weight on her soul, and wanted to accomplish things that made herself proud, and what would’ve made her parents proud.

She knew they wouldn’t have been, had they been able to see her now.

See her threaten a woman with violence and such a fierce hate in her eyes.

See her allow a woman’s torture, watching with shielded eyes.

And see her raise her own hand to strike a woman, bound and restrained.

…And yet, Clarke couldn’t bring herself to regret her actions. Anya had poisoned Bellamy, only she would know the cure. Clarke was doing was necessary, and no more than that.

She would not cry. She would not let Anya see how deep her words cut. She would not be weak, and refused to crumble in the face of adversity, its breath fanning down on her like a challenge. She would not be _cold,_ refused to fall into the bitter embrace isolation offered, arms like a cage around her.

She would be _strong._ She _would_ find this cure for Bellamy, and she would _not_ submit to failure. She would find other means of extracting the information she needed, not because she couldn’t handle watching the torture, not because she was faint-hearted or because she was w _eak,_ but because she believed in laying out her own path as leaders do, and she’d be dammed if she was going to follow the route of death and destruction, so old and weary now, so many cracks and faults.

She was not a princess, she was not a queen, she saw no version of a happy ending, had no illusions about a saviour falling from the sky. But that didn’t matter, because now with all her own cracks and her own faults, and all these jagged pieces of changed personality sewn together, she was better.

She was better this way.

And she sure as hell was going down without a fight.

She didn’t plan on letting Bellamy, either.

.     .     .     .     .

Clarke came into the med bay, stumbling a little when she saw that Bellamy was awake. (They’d been forced to move him there when the effects of the nightshade had struck, even if she knew he’d hate it.) She hurried over, batting away some of the people that surrounded him. _Why had no-one called her?_

She immediately pressed her hand to his forehead, his temperature searing. She didn’t notice the way he leaned into the cool touch of her fingertips, as she turned to look at the small crowd.

“You all need to get back to work. We need to secure the wall further, use scrap metal, anything you can find that’ll hold. We’re gonna need extra guards positioned around the foxholes and above the wall, I want eyes _everywhere._ Everyone needs to be doing their part, now more than ever – you hear me?” Her tone _leaked_ authority, her green eyes set and harder than ever.

They nodded their heads obediently, shuffling their feet. She knew that some of them still feared her, after they’d seen her coated in Murphy’s blood, running down hr hands and skin and staining her clothes. She might have been bothered by that, once upon a time, but now, if it meant they got their work done, she saw no reason to change it.

She turned to Bellamy, examining him quickly as her eyes filtered up and down his body. Sweat beaded along his forehead and along his chest, his thin shirt sticking to the skin. She moved her hand from his forehead to his chest, feeling his heartbeat under her hands.

It was too quick.

Their eyes met, and they were as she had seen them before, dark and flashing, almost unreadable in the dark light.

He looked scared.

“You’re gonna be okay.” She mumbled, reaching over for a cool cloth to dab along his forehead.

“I don’t- I- what’s happening to me?” He whispered, voice low and afraid, stumbling over his words.

“The arrow, it was tipped with poison. It’s why you’re seeing things, your fever, your heartbeat, they’re all effects.” She hadn’t met his eyes again, until he reached up, and placed his larger, warmer hand over hers, stilling her movements. She dragged her eyes back to him.

“Am I gonna die?”

_“No.”_

Her answer was immediate, her head shaking vehemently. She refused to see more blood spilled, watch more innocent people die.

She wouldn’t watch Bellamy die.

His hand still grasped hers, and she turned it around, so she could interlock her fingers with his.

“I’m not going to let you die.” Her thumb brushed lightly against his in what she hoped he wouls take as reassurance, searching his gaze for fear, only to find it washed away, and replaced with a simple smile.

“Bellamy!” Octavia’s voice burst through the tent, and they both looked up, startled at the younger girl’s appearance.

Clarke didn’t let go of his hand.

He didn’t let go of hers.

For once, she didn’t make a sarcastic quip, didn’t smirk knowingly as them, or offer a single eyebrow raise, but made her way over to her brothers side, eyes full of concern.

“Bell?” She whispered, coming to stand by his side, opposite Clarke. It took a second before she was throwing her arms around her brother, a choked sob escaping her lips, though muffled by his shirt. Clarke dropped his hand, sensing the moment was over.

She turned to leave, before turning and adding quietly, “I don’t- I don’t how long it’ll be before you lose consciousness again. There might- there _will_ be more hallucinations and I can’t stop those.” He took in a sharp breath at her words, but nodded none the less offering a small smile and he did his best to comfort his sobbing little sister.

Clarke turned, heading upstairs.

There was someone she had to speak to.

.    .     .     .     .

Anya glared at her, spitting out insults in a language she didn’t understand. She didn’t rise to the bait, didn’t attempt to talk to her, and didn’t hurt her. She didn’t even wince at the mark she’d left on her cheek earlier, when the emotions brewing had finally been enough to overpower sense.

She was careful to keep her face blank, only staring at her until Anya quietened, before folding her arms, and leaning against the wall beside her.

“What do you think they’ll say, when we hand you over to them?” Clarke spoke quietly, steadily.

“Do you think they’ll kill you? I think they might. And it won’t be quick either, will it? It’ll be a slow, painful death, without honour of course.” Anya laughed at Clarke, the sound bitter and shrill, blood guzzling from her lip.

“Like the boy below me? I hear his screams in the night and never has a sound been so _beautiful.”_ She smiles and her teeth are bloody and chipped and it’s takes Clarke _everything_ but she smiles back.

“Yeah, he’s dying. And it’s slow and it’s excruciating and I have no idea what he’s going through or how he’s coping with it.” Anya’s lips turn in a small, self-satisfied little smirk and Clarke wants to _tear the skin from her fucking face_ but she remains still, calm. “But, do you wanna know why? Why I have no idea how he’s coping with all that pain and suffering?”

The silence is almost eerie between them for a second. Clarke leans forward, coming closer to Anya’s bloody face.

“Because you missed.”

Anya lurches forward, tugging in an almost desperate manner on her restraints, with Clarke leaning leisurely back on her heels.

“He’ll die and he’ll suffer and he’ll hurt and so will you, _you little bitch._ My people will come and they’ll wreck you and I’ll _put an arrow through your pretty little head.”_

Clarke looks up, feigning disinterest, even though this is the closest thing they’ve had to a lead on the grounders in.. well, ever, really. _My people will come._

“What makes you think they care enough to save one traitors life, Anya? They’ll leave here to rot, and we both know that.”

Anya cackles, believing she has the upper hand in this situation. “You know nothing _nothing._ There were always plans to destroy you, I just moved them forward. The general will come, you can be sure of that.” She snarls, her lip curling as she continues to tug on her restraints.

“I just can’t seem them risking an army for a single person, especially since we covered that you’re not exactly on good terms with your _people,_ right now.” Clarke smiled because she was giving her _everything_ and she could taste something like hope on her tongue.

“They’ll come for me. They’ll come for sub noctem they will _they will.”_

“They-“

“CLARKE!”

Clarke’s head turned abruptly to Octavia scaling the ladder. She had a look of fright on her face, her eyes wide and her breaths coming out in short, almost desperate pants.

“Octavia what’s wrong?”

Octavia gasped for air, fingers clutching the ladder so hard they turned white.

“T-the grounders, they’re here!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haaaaaaaaaaaai guys! So, the story's beginning to wind down, and I'm putting an estimate on 3-4 chapters left (SOB). So now's the time for all your lovely reviews and questions to start pouring in. Thank you to anyone and everyone that ever leaves kudos, and go check out my new story (well, new to this website) all these dying things- a roman gladiator/princess bellarke fic. Love you all! :)


	14. 14 - blood that binds

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

It was raining.

That was the first thing Clarke noticed, when she stepped outside the dropship.

She didn’t see them shouting, their guns raised over the wall. She didn’t see the outline of the man that stood across from her, just hovering behind the door of the wall, the door that had been swung open. She didn’t see the silhouette of the grounders behind him, only a few, or see the way they carried with them only small weapons, daggers laying only just out of reach on their belt.

No, she saw none of this. She looked up, and she only saw the rain.  The clouds dark and drizzling, and she thought it was if though they were crying, for a second there.

She’d seen rain before, once, on the day of their arrival. But it was different now, somehow. Because now she had made her home, here in these muddy trenches and upon this dangerous land, and the rain felt something like refreshing. And she was afraid, but she’d grown so used to the feeling of fear just brewing on the surface, that it was becoming easier to conquer, easier to ignore.

She cast her gaze downward now, and finally scanned the scene as she knew she should’ve done in the first place. The people she called her own, they looked to her now, without an ounce of fright or panic, but with searching eyes and pleading souls. Because they hadn’t got used to the feeling of fear yet, it was plain to see and they _needed_ her to be the one that did it for them.

She began towards the figure hovering near the wall, taking note of his hard-set features. His hair was black, so much so that it looked as if it could’ve been dipped into the night itself. It was long too, tumbling down his back and woven into braids accomplished only by nimble fingers, not his own, rough and big and clumsy. His eyes were completely black, like the pupil had morphed to fill up the entire space. Her stomach dropped and flipped at the sight of those dark, soulless eyes. There were lines of age around his face, especially around the corners of his mouth, as if his lips had been pulled downward his entire life.

He was muscular, that much was clear underneath the fur or his clothes. But, it was muscle piled on muscle, and next to him, Bellamy looked s _kinny._

He really wasn’t a pretty sight, scars littering up and down his arms like spots, scratches as common as hairs. But Clarke had promised herself she’d be strong, if not for herself, then for her people. Then for Bellamy. And she refused to go back on her word now.

She began towards the grounder, posture tall, hands at her sides, not fumbling with her fingers. She held her head high, and the golden strands shone like a halo above all the other heads, crouched down in an attempt to seem smaller.

She stopped dead in front of the man, Raven and Octavia coming to stand either side of her.  She was silently grateful for their support, and she knew without looking, that Octavia’s features would’ve been set in stone, not quite glaring at the man in front of them, but studying, (critically of course), and Raven would have an eyebrow cocked high, mirroring Octavia’s expression.

“What do you want?”

Clarke’s voice rang out above the frantic whispering, strong and laced with authority. The people stopped, all eyes fell onto her.

The grounder raked her form, sizing her up, she knew. One of his hands rested leisurely against a sword lying from his belt, and for a few seconds, he said nothing, only stared at her, lips pulled into a sneer, and eventually coming to rest on a smirk.

The tension was _unbearable._ So much so that she wanted to grab the grinning sword from his belt and cut through it herself. The scattered breaths of the 100 behind her was all to be heard, gasping down oxygen so much that she thought the trees may wither and die at that very moment.

He reached down to his belt, opened a small flap, and pulled out a small vial. The liquid inside it was yellow and thick. Chunks of a darker bronze shone visible when she looked a little closer, sloshing about in the glass. Her eyes flicked back up to the man, staring straight at her (she thought).

“The one poisoned,” he began, his voice thick and rough against his words, “he will die soon.”

All three girls glared at him, their eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.

“What’s your point?” Octavia growled, her delicate fingers curling into fists as she placed a single foot forward. Clarke placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her.

The man raised a thick, black eyebrow at the way Octavia had moved forward towards him, as if in an attack.

“He _will_ die soon _if_ he is not given the cure.” Octavia sucked in a breath between her teeth, allowing Clarke to propel her back to her side.

“What do you want for it?” Clarke asked, trying to keep the hum of desperation from her words. Because the grounder could help him and they were _wasting time._

He grinned now, lips curling into a feral smile. He closed his fingers around the vial, obscuring it from Clarkes hungry gaze.

“ _Well,_ now. That is quite a long list. And we really don’t have much time.” As if on cue, a wave of fresh hacking sounded from the med bay, followed by an awful shattering sound that was like something had been thrown to the side – or _knocked._

Clarke looked back to the grounder, her mind working a mile a minute.

“You knew _you knew._ You knew one of us had been poisoned, and you knew what with, and you knew _exactly_ how long it would take before-“ She cut off, losing all sense of staying calm and acting rationally.

“And you had a cure, but you weren’t just going to give it to us, because that would be too easy. You don’t _need_ an army because you already have the power.” Clarke stood a little away from Raven and Octavia now, having moved forward in her realisations. The grounder held his hands up in the air, grinning that razor tooth smile (it wasn’t an exaggeration, she saw now that his teeth really were razors, as if they’d been filed down into perfect points).

“And finally, you catch up!” His tone was light, amid the rising shouts of horror and panic. Suddenly, his expression changed, his lips pulling into a snarl, as he stalked forward and caught Clarkes arm, holding it in a shattering grip.

“You _bomb_ my people. You _murder_ my warriors. You really think, I would be forgiving enough, to simply let you get away with that?” He tugged her forward roughly, ignoring the protests of Raven and Octavia, bringing his lips down to her ear.

“You are just silly little children. You have no _power._ Every version of this leaves my people standing above the mountains and yours lying _dead_ in the mud for the worms to eat. You will do as I say and you will do it _now._ You’re lucky that our warriors are less otherwise we would _annihilate_ you. _”_

Clarke wrenched her arm away from the unpalatable man, turning sideways and gesturing for the kids to lower their guns.

She turned back to him, ignoring the incredulous shouts. She didn’t know what she was doing, but she knew she was doing it for Bellamy.

“What do you want?” She repeated, unclenching and clenching her fists until her nails drew blood.

He grinned, leaning close to her until his putrid breath fanned out across her cheeks.

“Are you willing to pay what must be paid?”

Clarke turned slightly. She looked back to the faces of Octavia and Raven, both shaking their heads vehemently, saying words of _Clarke no,_ but she could barely hear them. The campers looked terrified, looking to her once again for the guidance she knew they so desperately needed. And finally, she looked back to Bellamy, and though she couldn’t see him, she could _hear_ him, hear his wheezing breaths and his violent cough, and imagined him still, no pulse, the only movement being the blood trickling from his nose.

Really, there never had been a decision.

She looked back, and the grounder was smiling.

Her eyes wary, she hurried to speak. “You swear you won’t hurt my people?”

His eyes narrowed, his lip curling. “Unprovoked, I will _try_ not to _kill_ them.”

 “That’s not-“

“The clock’s ticking, _girl._ ” He spat the word out at her as if it were an insult, likening her to trash.

Another clatter sounded from the drop ship, and Octavia was running inside.

“I- _I_ will pay the price, not them.” She said quickly, her eyes wide. He sighed impatiently, and gave a quick, brisk nod.

A yelp came from the drop ship and Clarke knew it was Octavia, recognized the voice and nodded her head quickly to the man in front of her. “Do it, _do it now.”_

He grinned as he leant forward, and ripped away th _e_ bottom of her shirt. She leaned back in surprise, when he pulled her back suddenly, slashing open her palm with his knife, before tearing open his own, and pressing the wounds together, tying the cloth around their joined hands. Keeping his eyes on her, he began to speak in a foreign language lowly, before repeating in English:

_‘The blood shall drip and dry but the oath remains in bounds,_

_Founded here on these now empty hallowed grounds,_

_For the deal to break for the oath to come undone,_

_Blood shall spill once more under a dying midnight sun.’_

.     .     .     .     .

Clarke snatched her hand away as soon as the cloth came lose and the second the grounder had finished his chant. She grabbed the yellow liquid from the palm of his hand, dashing away from him into the drop ship.

She pushed past Octavia, seeing the dark-haired girl with tears streaming down her cheeks and ignoring her cries of ‘ _he doesn’t have a pulse’._ She pulled Bellamy up, calling Octavia to hold him steady.

She poured most of the liquid down his throat, looking on him with despairing eyes. He was pale, body loose and still, his eyes shut.

He didn’t swallow.

“No!” She cried, grabbing onto his shoulders and shaking them, as if the small movement would restart his heart. Octavia broke down in sobs, collapsing onto the floor next to his bed, burying her head in her knees, a dark flourish or hair.

Clarke thought for a moment, and refusing to give up, propped him up against the wall, and went down to his leg, ripping the bottom of the trousers open, so his calf was exposed.

The wound on his leg had begun the healing process, but with something infused inside of it. The skin around it was tattered, and she saw with a start, _yellow._ Something white oozed from the skin that had begun to heal, veins popping out.

Clarke grabbed a knife, tearing into the healing skin. Bellamy made no movement. Grabbing a piece of cloth, she wiped away at the pus, until only red blood, thick and hot, spilled from the wound, turning her fingers scarlet.

She tipped the remaining amount of what was left in the vial into his wound, reaching to come and stand by his side.

She grabbed his hand within two of hers, whispering silent encouragement, as Octavia’s sobs wracked through her.

Bellamy swallowed the liquid, before shooting up with a gasp, hissing in pain.

Clarke let her head drop onto his shoulder, exhausted relief flooding through her.

Bellamy was alive.

And all she’d had to do was swear a blood oath.


	15. 15 - a blind man's stars

** CHAPTER FIFTEEN  **

“This is ridiculous.”

Octavia glowered at the weary blonde, shaking her head in incoherent disbelief.

“They want you to come _with_ them? And you’re actually agreeing to this? They’ll kill you Clarke!” She took a few steps forward, her rough boots hitting against the metal of the dropship with a harsh bang. Clarke sighed, turning away from her, and resting her hands against the cool metal of the table, allowing it to envelop the heat that was burning through her veins.

“What do you want me to do, Octavia?” She said quietly, her head only slightly turned towards the stubborn girl. “If I refuse, they’ll kill you all. I made a deal and I have to honour it.”

A harsh, bitter sounding laugh escaped Octavia’s lips as she propelled her body forwards, turning Clarke by her shoulder, an almost snarl on her lips but desperation in her eyes.

“You said it yourself. Without you, none of us would have survived this far. You leave and forget about worrying for the winter – we won’t make it until morning.” Her hands were rough and calloused, and she could not shield the plea in her voice.

“Clarke, please.”

She turned, removing herself from Octavia’s grip and her oh-so tempting puppy dog eyes. Of course she didn’t _want_ to leave them, but there was already a price on their heads – a price she’d agreed to pay.

“That’s not true. You’ll be okay. I’ve been training a few people, and they should be able to handle it while- while I’m away,” (when I’m gone without a hope to return) “I’ll talk you through some stuff before I leave, I’ll write it down and you can just-“

“We don’t only need you for a medic, Clarke.” Octavia’s voice carried, strong and loud and _harsh,_ and suddenly it was incredibly painful to have someone that cared. “You balance us out, you balance everything _out._ Without you we won’t be a society – we’ll be a wreck.”

And then Clarke was glad her back was turned, because had it not been, Octavia would clearly see the pain stretching out across her features, the agony that leaked from her eyes and slipped sadly down her cheeks.

“You have Bellamy.” She croaked, and fought hard to keep the heartache out of her voice, to keep her clumsy breaths steady.

Octavia let out an unsteady laugh. “How do you not see it yet?” She was almost shouting now, looking at Clarke like she was missing something so terribly obvious, like it hung in the air between them.

“He just _doesn’t work without you._ It’s like –like he’s a blind man staring at the stars.” Clarke had looked at Octavia as the shouting had begun, but now she dipped her head, secluding herself within the cold privacy of her own cluttered mind.

“I can’t stay, Octavia. I can’t, I’m sorry-“But the girl had already pushed past her, already reaching for the thick draping curtain that shielded them from the outside world, only sparing her a fleeting, meaningful glance over her shoulder, and her parting words.

“A blind man can’t lead a war.”

.     .     .     .     .

_“Be ready, girl.”_ He’d hissed into her ear, his thick fingers like casting irons on her arms, though he needn’t have bothered brandishing her already tarnished heart.  

_“We’ll come for you on first light. Don’t run, don’t plan any attack, we have warriors that will litter this ground with your corpses, and a recovery party in the waiting, should they not hear my command.”_ She’d kept a straight face, allowing the putrid man only a brisk nod before they’d departed, a bloodied Anya in attendance. Perhaps she had been wishing for a plan of attack, some last resort that would mean her staying with her people, but as their warriors settled at the boundaries of the camp and the Commander’s harsh words rung in her ears, any hope crumbled.

She’d do what had to be done.

Even if it cost her the most precious thing of all – her own life. (Except, maybe it didn’t seem so precious any more. Maybe it stopped seeming so precious the day she took a life and stained her hands that ruby red.)

Of course, Raven and Octavia hounded her some more about her departure, of course they all did, the blood of Murphy on her hands miraculously forgotten now it seemed she would no longer be able to fuss over their injuries and daily acts of stupidity. She didn’t blame them, hold their once fearful, distrustful gazes against them – how could she? She’d changed so much since they’d first come crashing down to the earth that she was barely able to keep track of her own life – so how could she expect them too?

No matter the amount of their begging words or pleading gazes, she would not relent. She told herself each time that they slouched away from her, hurt and bitter sadness clear within them, that everything she was doing, was for _them._ Every look and every word hurt them (and her) a little more, but she knew it was better in the long run.

The pain was bearable.

And much easier so, being as Bellamy had remained in his tent, still in recovery. She did not know that his words she would be able to resist, found it easier to instead leave their situation as it had been – the relief and unattainable joy at seeing some of the colour return to his paling skin.

Yes, it was easier this way.

And yet…

Was it not her duty, as a doctor, to see her patient in the best possible health before she left? And was it not her duty, as a responsibility to this friendship that had blossomed, to at least say goodbye?

She was doomed the minute she set foot in that tent of his.

.     .     .     .     .

His body was still, and she saw by the steady rise and fall of his chest that he was sleeping, peaceful in his unconscious state.  She hesitated for a moment, thought about stepping back into the inky night air, and returning to her own sleeping furs, should she feel the comfort of home once more.

It was only for a moment however, and she easily relented as she came to sit by his side, reaching for the bowl of cold water she had brought with her, and gently mopping a flannel-like material over his still-warm head.

He stirred as she did so, blinking out restless sleep. He stared at her, eyes drilling into hers, a she continued her gentle movements.

“I had to say goodbye.” She whispered, never stopping in her movements and never meeting his eyes. “I couldn’t just... I couldn’t.”

He says nothing, though closes his eyes against the shake in her voice.

“I need you to say something. I know Octavia told you what I’m going to do, and I need you to tell me you understand.” She’s blinking out the moisture from her eyes now, and her breaths fall out unsteadily, each one tripping over the other. His hand (finally) reaches up to still her movements, and finally she drags her eyes down to meet his, and his gaze is warm, and fear so relentlessly clear there.

“You should’ve let me die.” It’s quiet, and it sounds like a resignation. She snatches her hand away from his, eyes wide and shaking her head so vehemently that Bellamy sits up a little straighter.

“ _No.”_ She hisses, glaring at him now. He only stares back.

“We’re going to fall apart without you, Clarke. If I had just done my job, and _died_ before you could’ve made that deal then-“

“It’s not your job to _die,_ Bellamy! Leaders do what they think is right, and I know, _I know,_ you’re gonna get them through this, because I trust you, right now more than anyone else in the world. You won’t let them fall apart, you hear me? _You won’t let them.”_

He shakes his head, and she thinks a muffled sob escapes from his broken lips.

“I can’t do this without you.”

She closes her eyes for only a moment, allowing herself a second, before she cups his face gently, tipping his chin so he has no choice to meet her eyes.

“Yes you can.”

And it’s only them. There is no argument, no nagging camper moaning outside the tent cloth, no impending war waiting on their doorstep, destruction and death clawing at the gate. Only them, with the night stretched out before them.

It’s Clarke that leans forward to join their lips, hand reaching up to press against the back of his neck. It’s only tender, a brushing of lips that yields to be _so much more,_ and they’re broken, craning against each other to fit their jagged pieces together, searching for a wholeness that completes.

He pulls back, only slightly, so that their noses still brush, eyes still closed.

“We-we shouldn’t.” He whispers, clinging to the smallest amount of control he can possibly regain as Clarke presses her shivering body against his.

She ignores his words, reaching to press her lips against his neck, light against rough skin, before kissing along his jawline, his cheeks, behind his ear, along the tip of his nose, before finally, waiting by his lips, breaths mingling with his.

“We should.” And then she’s crashing her lips against his with none of the tenderness from the first touch. He’s almost hesitant until she bites down on his bottom lip, at which point, with the white flag waving high in the air, he concedes defeat, responding eagerly to her needy lips.

He pulls her towards him by the hips, sitting up straighter so she can straddle his lap. He pulls away from her mouth, only to plant hot, open-mouthed kisses along her skin, teeth lightly scraping against the unbelievably soft skin of her slender neck, which causes a moan to tumble helplessly from her reddened lips.  She pulls him back to her, pale fingers fisted in unruly curls, his tongue sliding along her bottom lip as she tugs impatiently on his thin shirt.

Within seconds it’s on the floor, forgotten as her hands reach to skim along the exposed skin. He moans into her mouth as her fingers skim patterns along his broad stomach, fingernails scraping against the muscle in his arms.

“I… need..you, Bellamy, please.” She pants, and he seems to understand, peeling away her jacket and top, large hands coming to rest of the bare skin of her stomach. She hooks her finger in his belt buckle, raising a challenging eyebrow. At this he smirks, and she falls off his lap as he stands to drop his trousers, leaving him only in his boxers. She allows her eyes to drift downwards, meeting his again only to see them fixed on her chest.

“Enjoying the view?” She challenges.

“Not as much as you, I’m sure.” He shoots back, smug. (It truly is easy to forget that this may be their last night together, when they’re both half naked and it’s spent like _this.)_

Her lips curve as she takes a delicate step backwards, loosening her belt. He follows each step she takes until her back hits the corner, and she’s kicked off her trousers.

He offers a sincere smile, and they find no words are needed as he leans down to gently cup her face, bringing their lips together once more. She smiles into the kiss, as his hands travel to graze her things, lifting her, and holding her securely against his chest as her feet entwine around his hips.

He leans her body back against the bed, knee wedged between her thighs, before moving to plant kisses along the length of her body, sucking at her collarbone and neck until they blossom a bright red, and darting his tongue out along her stomach. He begins to settle his head between her legs until she shakes her head, bringing him flush against her, and lifting, guiding his hands to the clip of her bra.

“Not now. Later. Now, I need.. I need _you.”_ She says urgently, and to emphasise her point, begins to push away offending pieces of clothing that settle between them.

She tilts her head back as he pushes into her, filling her so completely that it feels like she’s _exploding,_ body tearing apart as they breach the final hurdle between them. She reaches forward to bite into his shoulder as his fingers slip between their joined bodies.

She barely supresses a scream as she finds her peak, and she feels him do the same, panting breathlessly into her shoulder as they finish together. Not allowing him to roll away from her, she locks her arms around his neck and pushes their lips together, pouring everything she can into the single connection between them, needing him in that moment more than ever, before reality comes crashing back down, burning around them and smouldering the moment.

He pulls away, and it’s then she realises he’s crying, and so is she.

“How can you expect me to let you go now?” He whispers, and she can’t bear his sobs, so as he rolls off of her, she pulls his back to her chest, covering their bodies with his furs.

“How can you expect me to stay?”

.    .     .     .     .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honey I’m hooooooome.
> 
> Don’t hate me guys, I know it’s been a while, but I’ve kinda been putting this off because I’m getting closer to finishing it and that makes me sad. (ALSO, THE ANGST.)
> 
> I really will try to get you quicker updates, it just takes a while for me to sit down and WRITE.
> 
> Stay the amazing people you are and tell me your opinions on this chapter maybe?
> 
> Andie x


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